


Out the Barrel of a Gun

by chuusei_teki_na_koe



Series: Out the Barrel of a Gun [2]
Category: Persona 5
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe, Angst, Angst and Feels, Bad Romance, Bathroom Sex, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Father/Son Incest, Gun Violence, Humiliation, Love/Hate, M/M, Obsession, Poor Life Choices, Sexting, Shameless Smut, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-31
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-07-04 20:14:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 87,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15848553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chuusei_teki_na_koe/pseuds/chuusei_teki_na_koe
Summary: Subtitled: "Murders and Feelings and Manipulation" or, "Persona 5 except everyone is a rotten adult now."Akira is a vigilante with a military history. Along with Ryuji, his best friend since juvie, he assassinates deserving targets to help Futaba get revenge for her mother's murder.Then he impulsively sends an unsolicited dick pic to the popular mystery novelist Goro Akechi—and Akechi replies. Akechi is secretive to the extreme, but to be fair, Akira is lying to him about everything, too.Oh, and Prime Minister Masayoshi Shido is in his second term, and slowly turning the nation toward fascism.(When there's no metaverse and no personas, if you want to take out the Conspiracy, firearms and direct violence are required.)





	1. Just a NEET

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just turn on a playlist of Nine Inch Nails and Depeche Mode for this, half of these chapter names are song titles or references to lyrics.
> 
> The title is simultaneously a reference to the Mao quote (political power grows out of the barrel of a gun) and the Depeche Mode song "Barrel of a Gun."
> 
> Also look at this great art by Sula Saferoom: https://sulasaferoom.tumblr.com/image/178167719611  
> https://sulasaferoom.tumblr.com/image/178124252776

  

_“Prime Minister Shido spoke to the media today regarding the possibility of hostile action from China—”_

“Turn off the TV!” Futaba cried. “We're supposed to be having fun! None of that crap right now!”

They were in Futaba's room, after all, so Akira sighed and gave in to her demands, leaning over from the head of the bed to press the power button on the TV. Futaba had clearly lost the remote somewhere. It was probably somewhere among the piles of junk strewn all around the floor. She, Akira and Ryuji were hanging out in Futaba's room drinking celebratory convenience store booze, but the evening had quickly degraded to watching TV and complaining about politics.

Futaba, apparently, was not satisfied with this state of affairs. “We're talking about fun stuff now! All right! I'm changing the topic to _Bloody Justice!_ Go!” she said, knees tucked up in front of her as she sat in her desk chair, facing the two guys. Ryuji was on the floor with the collection of empty Chu-Hai and Strong Zero cans, leaning back against the bed.

Ryuji groaned. “I thought I banned you guys from talking about that. If I have to hear any more shipping arguments from you two, I'm gonna kill myself.”

“Sana/Akai is canon,” Akira said flatly. “There is no argument.”

“Wrong!” Futaba stabbed a finger in his direction. “The Sana/Osato subtext is so thick, it's not even subtext anymore. In _Broken Scales,_ she basically admitted she couldn't kill him because she depends on his help. And Akai? Come on, he's been chasing after her for the whole series, and she still won't even admit she has feelings for him. Because she doesn't!”

“She's saved his life over and over again!” Akira shot back. “And at least Akai's not old enough to be her father. And also, Osato's a fucking megalomaniac.”

“Some people are into that,” Futaba pointed out, wiggling her eyebrows.

“Guys…” Ryuji moaned, head flopping back onto the bed. “I'm literally dying…stop…”

“I just bet you,” Futaba continued, ignoring Ryuji, “that if we were to ask Goro Akechi right now what he actually intended, he would back me up. Sana/Osato OTP, bitches.”

Goro Akechi was the author of the famous mystery-thriller series, _Bloody Justice._ His books, which he'd started writing as a teenager, had been adapted into a live-action TV series and two theatrical movies, and there was apparently a Hollywood remake in the works, too. He was also young—barely over twenty-five—handsome, and made lots of TV appearances.

“So why don't you write him some fan mail, if you're so sure of yourself?” Akira suggested.

“Why don't _you?_ You're the one who's in love with him. I just like the books. You're obsessed with the author.”

“I'm not obsessed,” Akira protested. “He's just a hot guy who's on TV a lot. If he's on, I'll watch for the manflesh. That's all.”

“If I have to watch one more stupid celebrity gameshow with that stuck-up snot, I'm gonna puke,” Ryuji griped.

“No, you're gonna puke because you can't hold your booze,” Akira shot back. “I don't make you watch anything. You _could_ just go play with your pull-up bar instead.”

“I think he's just jealous because he'd rather play with _your_ pull-up bar, Akira,” Futaba teased.

“His pull-up bar is mounted crooked,” Ryuji shot back with only the slightest blush.

“You _know_ that isn't true, honey,” Akira said with a naughty smile.

“Oh, boys!” Futaba crowed, fanning herself dramatically. “It's getting steamy in here! Feel free to undress if you feel too hot. I won't stop you.”

“Let's not go down that road again,” Ryuji said, rubbing his face. “You're too thirsty for me to handle, Futaba.”

Akira snickered. The flirting was par for the course. They'd all had their sexual moments with each other and passed out the other side with minimal drama. He'd known them both for long enough that the lust had worn off, and aside from the odd brojob from Ryuji, some gropes from Futaba, and the incessant flirting, they were now basically comfortable friends who were just somewhat more intimate with each other than most friends were.

“Anyway, as I was saying about Goro Akechi,” Futaba got back on track, “I think you need to take your relationship with him to the next level. And by that I mean—” she raised her Chu-Hi up, her red face evidence of her drunkenness, “you should send him a dick pic.”

Ryuji burst into sloppy laughter. “You totally should, man! Do it! Do it!”

“You want me to send a dick pic to _the_ Goro Akechi?” Akira asked. “Come on. I'm sure he gets dick pics every day.”

“That's why you gotta make it special,” said Futaba. “Wrap it up with a bow that says, _for Goro Akechi._ I can Photoshop that on.”

Akira was just drunk enough that this was sounding like a good idea, but he wanted to add his own flourish to this. “No no no, not a ribbon. It should be like—like on a chariot. And it should also be a tentacle monster—a dick that's also a tentacle monster on a chariot.”

Ryuji and Futaba both went silent and stared at him.

“That's not sexy, Akira,” Futaba said flatly. “Also, I can't Photoshop that.”

“Look,” Akira said, pushing up his fake glasses. “If I wanna get his attention, I can't just send him a normal dick pic. It's got to be attention-grabbing. And hey, what about that artist you've been chatting with online? Blue Fox? The one who you commissioned to do that hyper-realistic Osato/Sana bondage piece? You said he does this thing mixing photo manipulation with drawing. Couldn't he pull off something like that?”

Futaba opened her mouth, then closed it again, pensive. “You know, maybe he could do that. He's a helluva artist, and he'll do just about anything for money. I'll hit him up.”

And so the idea was conceived.

Akira and Ryuji were too drunk to ride Ryuji's motorcycle back home, so they left it outside the Sakura residence in Yongen-Jaya as they stumbled back over to the train, talking too loudly to each other about their stupid idea and how Akechi would react, still cackling about it when they finally got home and passed out on the couch with their shoes still on.

x x x

Futaba didn't tell Akira how much the commission ended up costing, but she never told Akira how much money she made, either. He had something of a don't-ask-don't-tell policy when it came to her finances. She'd explained vaguely to him before about the software she programmed for high-speed stock trading and market prediction, but he had a sneaking suspicion some (or most) of her activity wasn't exactly legal, so he figured it was better not to know. She was paying Sojiro rent on top of paying paying the rent for his and Ryuji's apartment, and that was as much as he was aware of.

Regardless, the result was glorious. Akira's dick and balls, turned a lovely shade of green, with tentacles, on a chariot. A masterpiece of hand-drawn work and digital manipulation, it was stunningly realistic.

 **This is too good for a prank,** Akira texted to Futaba two weeks later when she sent him the completed image.

 **I know, right?** She replied. **Fox is a genius. I want to be in his brain and watch out his eyeballs.**

As usual, Futaba was a creep when she liked someone. **Just ask this guy out already.**

**You know I can't.**

**You managed to leave the house just last week, though.**

**Yeah, to go to Leblanc.** **I can't go on a date. No way no way no way.**

Lounging on the couch at home in his and Ryuji's apartment, Akira sighed. Futaba was a lot better than she had been. He'd first met her online when they were teenagers, on a _Bloody Justice_ fan forum. Back then, she'd compulsively lied about her situation before finally revealing that she'd been a shut-in for years and only ever left her room to go to the bathroom.

It was literally years until Akira managed to visit her in person, by which point Futaba, still unable to leave her room, had finished high school via an online program. He would come see her in person whenever he could get leave, and he'd introduced her to Ryuji, as well. With years more of slow coaxing, they could now get her to come out of the house…sometimes. She had a habit of crushing on strangers on Twitter and then never doing anything about it. Blue Fox was her latest obsession. As far as Akira knew, she didn't even know his real name, or what he looked like. Akira assumed he was a furry.

 **I'm gonna set you up with this guy whether you like it or not,** Akira texted back at her.

**I'm not even gonna consider it unless you send that pic to Goro Akechi.**

Fair enough. Akira carefully composed the message he would send to Goro Akechi and sent it to Futaba to get her opinion, first. It read:

_Dear Goro Akechi,_

_I love your books—but I'm more interested in the man behind them. I think I have something to offer you. Attached is a photo of my glorious manhood. Feast your eyes upon it. If you so choose, it could be yours—all yours._

_Sincerely,_

_The Daring, Interesting, Cock-King_

After a long pause, which Akira could only assume was Futaba laughing her socks off, Futaba texted back, **I love it. Send send send!**

**Sent. Now we wait for a reply.**

x x x

As much effort as they'd put into this prank, Akira wasn't expecting much to come out of it. Some kind of spam filter would remove the message, or some social media manager would make sure it never saw Goro Akechi's eyes, or the man himself would see the message and immediately delete it. That was fine. They'd gotten some laughs out of it, at least.

So he was quite surprised when he got a reply to his email in a matter of days. It read,

_Dear D.I.C.K.,_

_Your manhood is indeed impressive. My eyes have been scorched with its glory. Never in my life have I seen such a potent, virile tribute to masculine virtue. I believe I shall write it into my next novel as the hero; it's affected me just that deeply._

_Sincerely,_

_Your Worshipper_

After his eyes were done boggling out of his head at receiving not only a reply, but a reply like _that_ from _the_ Goro Akechi, Akira immediately forwarded the email to Futaba and Ryuji, and both of them reacted with strings of OMGs and crying-with-laughter emotes.

Of course, Akira had to take this as far as it would go.

_Dear Worshipper,_

_Your adulation pleases me: I would bless thee, baptize thee with my holy water and share in carnal communion with you. Idolize me, and I shall adopt you as my prophet, to preach the glory of my Phallus to all of humanity._

_Sincerely,_

_D.I.C.K._

Goro Akechi's reply came back within the day.

_Holy D.I.C.K.,_

_My new idol, on my knees I pray before you, ready and willing to accept the blessings you shower upon me. I am touched by the grace of the D.I.C.K._

_Jokes aside, thank you for that, I haven't laughed like that in a long time. …I hope you're joking._

_-Goro Akechi_

Akira replied immediately.

_It's a joke, don't worry. My friends put me up to it while we were drunk. They wanted me to send a dick pic, and I said, if I want to get Goro Akechi's attention, I have to go whole ham. We have to take this seriously, I said. …Maybe we took it too seriously._

His reply was practically instant.

_Well, you have my attention._

Akira sank back into his bed, looking up at his phone. He hadn't been expecting this. And now that they were having a non-joking conversation, he suddenly felt nervous. What would he even say? This new connection was tenuous as a spider's thread.

Akira decided to take a risk.

_Reading your books gives me the impression you don't have any friends. I could be your friend, if you want. I promise I'm not actually a dick monster in real life. I'm a pretty cool guy, in fact. :D_

The reply didn't come that night, and Akira resigned himself, figuring he'd been too forward, too intrusive, and Akechi had decided to drop contact.

Akira was surprised when he rolled out of bed around noon the next day to find a reply from Akechi. The time stamp said it had been sent during the wee hours of the night.

_What about my books gives you the impression that I don't have any friends?_

As Akira got up, took a pee, fed and watered the needily meowing Morgana, and made himself some toast and eggs for breakfast-slash-lunch, he mentally considered his reply. Then, egg-covered toast in one hand as the TV murmured in the background about those berserk incidents that had been happening lately, with his other hand, Akira typed out,

_Come on, you know “trust nobody” is like a meme among your fans, right? The characters you least expect it always turn out to be double-agents or traitors._

_Sana's internal psychology is so complex, as is her relationship with the various antagonists, but her relationships with her friends and allies all read like they were copied from other books or movies. They're shallow. It's like you've never once had a close personal relationship to draw from._

Sana Seigi was the private detective who was the protagonist of the _Bloody Justice_ series. In interviews, Akechi claimed the character was inspired by the real-life Detective Prince Naoto Shirogane.

He got a reply in a few hours.

_I'll admit certain character relationships have been a challenge for me to write. What criticisms do you have, specifically?_

Akira replied,

_The worst is Sana's relationship with Akai. It's like a accumulation of rom-com will-they-or-won't-they tropes and not something that would ever happen in real life. It's not even clear she even likes him. She's kind of a bitch to him all the time, and he just follows her around like a puppy dog with no reason beyond welp! She's my boss! And she hardly ever throws him a bone._

As much as he shipped it, Akira knew that was personal bias, and their romance was probably the worst thing about the series. He sure as hell wouldn't admit that to Futaba, though. She would be _so_ smug.

As an afterthought, he added,

_Also, here's my number. It'd be easier to text._

Akechi's reply via text came rather rapidly. **She acts that way to him out of professionalism. She's not about to start an office romance, because she sees her job as more important. He admires her passion for the job and her skill.** Akira kind of got the impression that he was a little offended Akira had just shat on his writing.

 **Have you ever been in love?** Akira typed. He was putting money on no.

**I don't see how that's even relevant. You don't have to have murdered someone to write about a murder. You research, and you read what other people have written, and you put together the best approximate. That's what all writers do.**

Akira was at the convenience store when he read that one, and he cracked a big, smug smile in front of the cashier when he saw it. After paying for his stuff, he hooked his plastic bag of ready-made food and snacks under one elbow and typed out a reply outside the store. **You basically just admitted that you've never been in love. And at your age, too! I think I need to stage an intervention.**

**Oh, please. And what would you even do?**

That was a provocation. And Akira never turned down a challenge.

When he got home, he pulled off his shirt and took a selfie that cropped out all his face but his lips, focusing the center of the image on his chest, with his pants tugged down to reveal just a hint of dark hair. He wasn't as cut as Ryuji, but he worked out often enough. He knew he was hot.

So he sent the image to Akechi with the message: **This. Are you in love yet?**

A pause. Then the reply,

**No. But I have to say, you're a lot less green and more handsome than I expected.**

Akira snickered to himself. This was a good response. **You think I'm handsome. That's the first step to falling in love. I've already made you a better writer through the power of my toned abs.** Akira threw himself down on the couch, looking at his phone, waiting for a reply.

He didn't have to wait for one. **Your toned abs have done nothing but clog up my SD card**.

**But you don't deny my abs are toned.**

**I've seen better.**

**Prove it.**

Akechi's reply was a picture of a man with his shirt pulled up just enough to show some seriously cut abs. The hand that held up his shirt were covered by Akechi's own trademark black leather glove.

_Holy shit._

He'd just goaded Goro Akechi into sending him a picture of his abs.

This was too good to send to Futaba and Ryuji. He never could have imagined the man had a body like _that_ underneath his fancy suit. He clearly worked out, and hard—not something Akira would have expected for a pretty-boy intellectual type like him.

 **I concede defeat,** Akira texted back, **in the realm of abs. But we haven't gotten to the real competition, yet.** He leaned back on the couch, grinning to himself.

**The real competition?**

**You know what I mean.**

**I really don't.**

Was he just being coy, or was he actually that dense? Akira couldn't tell.

Right as Akira was pulling out his dick to prepare a photo to send back, Ryuji banged through the door to their apartment, the visor on his motorcycle helmet up as he loudly griped, “Agh, listen to this shit! Remember last week when they said they were gonna pay me 50,000 if I placed in the race coming up? _Apparently_ that's not gonna—” He stopped when he saw Akira with his dick out and phone in hand. “C'mon, man, I keep telling you if you're gonna watch porn on your phone, do it in your room. Your dick is a distraction.” Ryuji pulled off his helmet and tucked it up on the shelf, then stripped off the rest of his gear. Riding gear and athletic equipment were the only thing Ryuji ever put away properly. Everything else always ended up on the floor, right where Morgana could get his fur all over it—or worst case, poop on it.

Akira couldn't be offended by that remark. He politely tucked his dick away and said, “Not watching porn. I'm sexting Goro Akechi.”

“ _What?!_ ” Ryuji pulled off his final riding boot and came over to the couch. His gait looked so natural now, compared to when they'd been in juvie together, you could hardly tell he had a limp unless you were looking for it. “You're bullshitting me. Prove it.”

Akira flipped his phone around to show Ryuji the picture of Goro Akechi's abs.

Ryuji grabbed his phone and stared at it. “Holy shit. Is this him, for real? I had no idea he was this cut.”

Akira nabbed his phone back. “Neither did I. And if you'll excuse me, I've got a dick pic to send.”

“I thought you already sent him a dick pic,” Ryuji teased.

“A real one, this time!” Akira said as he excused himself to his room.

Now with some privacy, Akira decided to get right to it. But he was going to be teasing about it. He jerked himself a bit to get hard, then tucked his dick back into his pants, making sure the outline of it was nice and visible, and took a picture.

Before sending the photo, he checked to make sure it made his dick look properly big. It was good.

Akechi's reply was a little slow. Akira imagined he was spending the time occupied with the image Akira had sent him. He lay back on his bed, pulling his cock out again to jerk himself slowly, thinking about Akechi looking at his photo, perhaps blushing a little, perhaps licking his lips.

Then Akechi's reply came. **Are you trying to tell me your dick is bigger? That's a pretty juvenile thing to compete over.**

Akira grinned to himself. **If you're not replying with a dick pic, that means you concede defeat.**

It was a while before Akechi replied, but Akira wasn't disappointed. The reply was a dick pic.

It was a totally cheating picture, a low-angle shot facing up from between the legs that would make any guy's dick look massive. Akira had seen enough dick pics to see through such basic tricks and recognize that his was the bigger cock, and feel smug about it. But he wasn't going to rub Akechi's face in it when he'd just gotten the prize that was a picture of Goro Akechi's junk.

After this much teasing himself, Akira was beyond beating around the bush. **I want to suck you off so bad,** he replied.

It seemed Akechi was done playing coy, too. **I would love to grab you by the hair and fuck your mouth.**

Receiving a message that direct made him giddy. **I'd love take that sexy cock of yours all the way to my throat until I swallow your cum. I'm hard right now, just thinking about it.**

**You're beating off to thoughts of me?**

**Of course I am. You're so fucking hot. Just the thought of your cock sliding along my tongue is getting me close.** And he was close. Akira brought himself to the edge and pulled back again, wanting to draw this out as long as their conversation lasted.

**Good. I want you to be thinking of my cock when you cum. Tell me how much you want it. Beg me, and I might give you another picture.**

Shit. Another picture. Akira was very willing. **I want your cock so bad I can't think about anything else. Please send me another picture of your cock. Please.**

A couple minutes later, and Akira got a picture of Akechi's cock, gripped in a fist, with come dripping down from the tip over his fingers and down his dick.

Lying back on the bed, Akira came onto his stomach as he looked at the picture, imagining licking that line of jizz from base to tip, grabbing that hand and licking every finger clean.

After he'd come and his mind cleared, Akira was struck by what had just happened.

He'd just sexted Goro Akechi. He had a picture of Goro Akechi's jizz-covered cock on his phone.

_Oh, my god._

There was only one thing to do, in this situation.

He took a picture of his own post-orgasm mess and sent it back with the message, **I just came to that pic.**

The reply was a brief, **Good.**

 **I didn't actually expect this to happen when I first sent you that “dick pic,”** Akira admitted, cleaning himself off as he waited for a reply.

**How did you know I'm interested in men, anyway? I believe I've been fairly circumspect in that regard.**

**You always go into way too much detail describing the attractiveness of the male cast. Especially Akai.**

**The series is told from the perspective of a woman.**

**Yeah, most straight guys still wouldn't be thinking about it as much as you clearly do.**

**I don't think about it that much.**

Akira had to chuckle. His denial was adorable.

 **Anyway,** Akechi added, **did you just try to contact me because you're attracted to me? It seems like you have nothing but criticism for my books.**

**Not true. I said the psychology of the main character is interesting, didn't I? Sana Seigi is totally my waifu. And you clearly know something about guns and combat situations. The series is way more realistic than most books in the genre.**

**I do my research.**

Akira imagined him blushing smugly, but maybe he wasn't that cute in real life. Akira could fantasize.

 **You're into firearms?** Akechi added.

**Yeah, though I never tried to get licensed or anything... I satisfy myself with research and model guns. Your books are such gun porn, it makes me feel like I have a whole collection in my bookshelf. You just set the books in an alternate future just so you could have an excuse for getting more guns into the story, didn't you?**

**Aha, I've admitted as much many times in interviews. I've always enjoyed American action movies, and I wanted that style of action, but I also wanted to set the story in Japan. So I had to go somewhat into speculative fiction territory.**

**That's one of the things I love about the series,** Akira typed enthusiastically. **It's grounded and realistic, but it takes liberties to give the series something unique. And like I said, Sana Seigi. I would wife her so hard.**

**You do realize she's a villain protagonist, right? Have you read the most recent book?**

The _Bloody Justice_ series could essentially be summed up as, “you either die a hero, or live to become the villain.” Sana Seigi started off as an idealistic young detective, and over the course of years of being embroiled in organized crime, political scandals, military conspiracies and all matter of filth, she slowly became what she had been fighting in the beginning.

In the most recent book, Sana had discovered a prominent politician had ordered a hit on someone she knew, had let it happen in return for political favors—and then once she'd gotten what she wanted out of that politician, she had him killed herself. It was her dirtiest move yet.

 **I've read** _ **Broken Scales**_ **three times,** Akira replied. **She doesn't always make the right decisions, but it's hard to do that in the pressure of the moment. I can respect someone who's willing to break the rules and get her hands dirty to accomplish what's right, and get back at the people who deserve it. She still believes in the mission.**

**Oh, you're one of those people. I've heard about fans like you. “Sana Seigi did nothing wrong,” eh?**

Akira felt a little indignant. **Come on, do the math. She saves more lives than she kills.**

**Utilitarian nonsense.**

**You're the one who wrote the character. You must have some sympathy for her.**

There was a bit of a pause before Akechi replied. **It can be fun to cheer on a villain, because you get to see them break the social rules that constrain most people. But this is just a fantasy, and a far cry from what it would actually be like to interact with that person in real life.**

That was such a non-answer, Akira just had to poke at that question harder. **Yeah, obviously all the action and intrigue is dramatized, but the way she acts and thinks in regular situations is super real. That's someone you could interact with IRL.**

Another pause, longer this time. **You wouldn't want to.**

Akira stared at his phone for a while, trying to figure out if he was reading too deeply into this whole conversation or not. He settled for avoiding the question for now, and instead typed,

**All this texting is making my thumbs hurt. I know you live in Tokyo, too. Do you wanna meet up for coffee or something? I know a good place.**

A long pause. Akira started to wonder if maybe he shouldn't have asked.

Akechi replied, **I'm sorry. My schedule doesn't really permit that sort of thing.**

That sounded like an excuse. Who the hell didn't have time for coffee?

 **But I've enjoyed chatting with you,** Akechi added. **I want to talk to you again.**

He didn't want to meet IRL—and the way he said it, it sounded like he didn't want to meet _ever,_ not just that it was too soon—but he wanted to chat again. Akira couldn't understand why, but he was deeply curious.

 **I like talking to you, too,** Akira replied. **I'm gonna feel seriously blue-balled if you never wanna see me IRL, but I'm okay with just chatting, too.**

 **I'm sorry. I would if I could.** So it was a “never” for sure, then.

**You don't have to apologize. I feel lucky to be able to talk to you.**

Suddenly, Akira got a message from Futaba through the private, secure app she'd made just for her, Akira, and Ryuji. **Hey. I got a bead on our shadow. Get your butt ready.**

Akira jolted up, then quickly sent a message to Akechi. **I've gotta go now, but I'll text you later, okay?**

Then he replied to Futaba. **The banker? OK, roger. Me and Ryuji'll be at base in 20.** This was it. Another job—the reason Futaba was paying their rent, plus bonuses.

Futaba had been ranting to them about this guy for weeks now—he was dirty a hundred times over and was supposed to have been near the top of their list, but he never seemed to be in the right place at the right time. It looked like she'd finally found an opportunity for them.

Akira immediately turned off his phone, leaving it on his bed. “Ryuji!” He called out to the living room.

“I got the message already!” Ryuji called back.

Akira got changed into his game clothes: soft sweatpants and a long-sleeved shirt, all in dark colors, and tossed his soft leather gloves on the bed. It was October, and rather chilly outside, but that wasn't the reason Akira was bringing gloves. They were dark red—and that was a vanity more than a practicality. He'd have rather gotten something brighter, but he wasn't so stupid as to wear colors that would make him stand out.

He slid his fingernails into the panel on the floor to pull up the floorboards and bring out a black case no bigger than your typical briefcase, but rather on the heavy side. He put on his gloves, then pulled out the case and carefully replaced the floorboards.

“You ready?” Ryuji came in, and he already had his gear and helmet on.

Akira stood, placing his case on the ground, and took the black motorcycle helmet Ryuji offered him. He tossed his fake glasses on the bed before he pulled the motorcycle helmet down over his head, securing the strap and raising the visor so he could tuck his bangs away and out of his eyes.

“Headsets are still in the coat pockets, right?” Akira asked him. They were standalone devices, not attached to any phones.

“You know I never move them. C'mon.” Ryuji turned around and headed toward the door.

Akira picked up his case, went out to the front and grabbed Ryuji's riding backpack. It was the domed kind that looked like a turtle shell, and style-wise, it was pretty lame, but it did the job. Akira yanked out Ryuji's junk so he could stuff his case in as well as his folded tripod, then shrugged into his own riding jacket.

Ryuji was shaking his head—a silly-looking gesture, in a motorcycle helmet. “Leather jacket with sweats, man? You're so lame.”

“I need to be able to move freely, okay?” Akira grumbled. “If we were just going riding, I'd wear some leather.”

“Uh-huh.” Ryuji was grinning inside his helmet.

“I'm not gonna take fashion advice from a cripple who still wears sports wear every day,” Akira ribbed him as he zipped up his boots.

A few years ago, that sort of remark would have earned him a punch in the gut, but now, Ryuji just took it with a snort. “This cripple's carrying your ass out there when this is over, so you'd better be careful how you talk to me.”

“Yeah, yeah, spare me your bragging.” Akira got the pack on and they stepped out, locking the door behind them. Akira rapped a knuckle on Ryuji's helmet. “Turn on your helmet bluetooth so we can talk on the road,” he said, and he pressed the button on his own helmet, adjusting the volume down a notch.

They pattered down the outer apartment steps to the garage where two bikes were parked side-by-side—one, a screaming-yellow high end sports bike, and the other a more sedate cruiser. Both of them were Ryuji's. Akira had a license, but he was a garbage rider, and Ryuji didn't want him touching his babies. They'd been lucky to find an apartment building that would allow them to park motorcycles in the garage—Akira was fairly certain that there were actual gang members living in the building, but he was fine with that. It wasn't like their own noses were squeaky-clean, either.

Ryuji swung his leg over the cruiser and Akira hopped on behind him as Ryuji unlocked the steering column, pressed the ignition, and set off. They were headed for a discreet location where they parked their _other_ bike under a bridge. This was their “base.” Akira paid off a homeless guy generously to make sure that this bike was left alone. This bike had the fairings of an old black Honda starter bike with a 1000cc engine tucked away inside. The license plate was registered to a man who didn't exist.

Futaba came in on their helmet headsets as they were switching bikes. “You're going to this spot just outside of Marunouchi. I've got your positions on my map, so just follow my verbal directions, okay, guys? I caught him using facial recognition on Skype, and then I hacked the—actually never mind, my the point is, he's in an accessible room and on his computer, but I don't know for how long, so you've gotta get your ass in there fast, Joker. And keep the bike running this time, okay, Skull?” Futaba really loved these code names. She sounded positively giddy when she said them.

“Roger, Oracle,” Akira replied. He liked the code names, too. Even if they were a little silly.

Ryuji took off, not busting too fast over the speed limit and mostly obeying traffic laws (they didn't want to draw too much attention, after all). Arms wrapped tight around his waist, Akira privately thought that Ryuji was such a badass when he rode. He wouldn't say that out loud, of course, because Ryuji would never get over himself, but Akira very much enjoyed riding bitch with him.

When they arrived at the location Futaba picked for them, Akira immediately understood why she'd chosen this spot. Across the street from their “shadow” was a tall abandoned building slated for demolition. You just didn't get sweet spots like that every day.

Ryuji pulled the bike in around back and sat there, leaving the bike running. Akira hopped off, pulled off his helmet and gave it to Ryuji to hang onto while he waited, then quickly strode into the building with the air of a man who was supposed to be there. It was unlocked, which made things easier. Lockpicking was so time-consuming.

As he walked, he pulled the headset out of his pocket and fitted it in his ear, turning it on. It crackled a bit in the concrete building, but continued to stay connected.

“Go up to the sixth floor,” Futaba instructed, and Akira went through stripped hallways and barren stairs. The place looked like it had once been some sort of office building. “You want to be on the north side of the building, in the northwest corner.”

Following her instructions, Akira entered a room with a bland, conference room look to it and said, “Got it. There's a good spot by the window.” They were floor-to-ceiling windows, which was great. He preferred to lie prone.

“He's the balding guy in the gray suit in the gold building. There's no one else in the room. You should be able to see him from that direction.”

Carefully staying low, Akira pulled a light, foldable pair of binoculars out of his pocket so he could get a good look at the building Futaba described to him. It was across the street and nearly a block down, about as far as you could get in an urban area and still get a clear shot. With the magnified vision, he could see the gentleman Futaba described. “I think I see the back of his head. He's facing away from the window, sitting on a blue chair.”

“Yeah, that's him.”

“Roger.”

Akira took off the backpack and pulled out his case, opening it to reveal his tactical take-down rifle, each part snugly packed into its compartment. He'd brought the tripod just in case, but it seemed he wouldn't need it—and he'd forgotten his goddamn ear protection again. He didn't really trust the suppressor he had to be enough.

He assembled the rifle with the ease only hundreds of practice assemblies got you, loaded it, and settled down his stomach, checking through his binoculars one more time before he switched to the scope.

“Wind speed five kilometers per hour northeast,” Futaba supplied helpfully. “He should be about a hundred meters down from you. Can you make the shot?”

“Easy,” Akira replied. He zeroed the sights to a hundred meters, adjusted his aim to take the wind into account.

“I'm gonna tell you when he closes Skype. I don't want the guy on the other end to see.”

“Roger,” Akira replied, and settled down to wait.

It wasn't a long one. “He closed it! Now!”

Akira did it like always, just like they'd taught him in the SDF. It was all about consistency. Breathe in. Breathe out. He squeezed the trigger, and kept squeezing through the recoil of the fire. His ears were filled with nothing but the bang. One shot. Two.

The figure in his scope collapsed in a spray of blood. There was a bullet-shaped hole in the window in front of him, cracks webbing out from it.

Akira closed his eyes and spent just a moment letting himself feel his heart race, basking in the elation of a successful shot.

“You got him,” Futaba said. “Now get going, go go go.”

Akira dissembled the rifle and packed it away in record time, shrugging the pack on again as he ran out of the room and back down the stairs. When he got out of the building he yanked the headset out of his ear and stuffed it in his jacket pocket, caught the helmet Ryuji tossed him and fastened it, and they were riding away at a moderate, non-suspicious speed in the opposite direction, completely undetected.

They rode around the city aimlessly for a while, just in case, then went back to their spot under the bridge to swap bikes, then rode home. The whole thing took less than an hour.

“Aaaand mission complete,” Futaba said through their helmet headsets on the way back, humming a victory tune.

This wasn't their first, but it was still fresh enough that it was an intense thrill for all three of them.

“I know I've said this before, but this is fucking crazy,” Ryuji said.

“You're into crazy,” Akira pointed out, leaning into the rough textile of Ryuji's jacket. The plated back made it not great to hug.

“I know. But I still can't believe it.”

“We still got lots more to go,” Futaba said darkly, “So I hope you're not getting cold feet.”

“Hell no,” Ryuji replied vehemently. “We're gonna take down every one of those dirty motherfuckers involved in this shit. Someone has to do it.”

“Someone has to,” Akira echoed.

“…Thanks, guys, again. I never thought I'd be able to get even, not like this. I'm crazy lucky to have you guys.”

“This isn't just about revenge for your mom,” Akira said. “Though I'd help you with that, anyway. This is about doing what's right. Sometimes, justice has to get a little bloody.”

Ryuuji groaned. “You're such a fucking nerd. Stop with the references.”

Futaba cackled into their headsets. “Never stop with the references. You're my Sana Seigi, Joker.”

“I consider myself more of an Akagi Akai,” Akira shot back. “He has that whole ex-military thing going on, too.”

“Then who's the Sana Seigi here? I'm not that badass, and it sure as hell isn't Ryuji. He's too dumb.”

“Hey!” Ryuji protested.

Akira cracked a private smile, and didn't say anything.

x x x

When they got back, Akira and Ryuji were welcomed by Morgana meowing for food, twining around both their legs and getting everything covered in black fur, as usual. After they got all their gear off and Akira was done stowing his rifle case and feeding the cat, he checked his phone to see there was a message from Akechi.

**All right. I just realized I never asked your name, though. You already know mine. And what do you do?**

Looking at his phone, Akira smiled to himself and replied,

**I'm just a NEET. You can call me Joker.**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do intend to involve the whole PT in the story eventually, but they will have different roles and be involved to a lesser extent than the core cast of this chapter.


	2. An Honest Liar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually mostly-wrote a short prequel fic about Akira and Ryuji meeting in juvie (and how both of them ended up there) that I will finish up at some point and post. So I won't get too much into that here. It's just sort of background information.

 

It was juvenile detention that had made Akira a liar.

He'd been as honest as anyone before that. But the environment at juvie had required lots of bullshit.

The first lie he told them was that he regretted the “assault.” That one was mandatory, of course.

The second lie he told them was that he missed his parents and his friends. That one was to gain sympathy.

The third lie he told them was that he wanted to go to university. Combined with his generally-good grades, that made him look like he wanted back into respectable society.

Ryuji was a shit liar, and he'd paid the price for his inability to keep his lid on with continued harassment, solitary confinement, and a leg injury irreparably worse than what he'd gone in with. And while Akira admired that Ryuji was honest to a fault, he would never emulate that tendency.

The fact of the matter was that there was no assault to regret, his parents and his “friends” didn't miss him anyway, and a solid two years in juvenile detention had completely dissuaded Akira from ever wanting to enter a respectable job or live a respectable lifestyle. Not that anyone respectable would hire him, with his history.

The one place that was willing to hire just about anyone, however, was the JSDF. Masayoshi Shido's election had been followed by a push toward militarization, and they'd been accepting anyone with a pulse, criminal record or no. Eighteen and freshly out of juvie, without his parents' support, Akira had seen it as his only real option.

The SDF had been a breeding ground for more lying. Akira had naively assumed that there would be a lot of kids like him who really didn't give a damn about the nation and just wanted to carry a gun, get ripped, and get a paycheque, but that was surprisingly not the case. Especially not in Shido's Japan.

Needless to say, he quickly discovered there were three expedient lies that smoothed the gears of daily life in that shithole of poorly-concealed jingiosim and over-inflated hyper-masculinity: 1) Rising sun flag is best flag 2) I don't know who Bakunin is, that book in my luggage was an ironic joke a friend pulled on me and 3) fuck China and/or North Korea.

Eventually, Akira left the SDF with rock-hard abs (now slightly wilted), the ability to shoot a sparrow at three hundred meters, and a compulsive habit of dishonesty.

Telling Akechi he was a NEET was just common sense—he certainly couldn't say he was a paid hitman for a shut-in hacker genius with a revenge obsession. But the lies that came after that—those weren't common sense. That was habit kicking in.

 **You're a NEET? Really?** Came Akechi's message, and Akira wasn't sure if that was meant to be scornful in tone or just expressing genuine curiosity and surprise. Either seemed plausible.

 **Yes, really,** Akira replied to him as he lounged on the couch in sweatpants, no underwear and no shirt. He was in full NEET mode. Ryuji was out, probably at the motorcycle track, like always. Akira usually had their apartment to himself during the day. Sometimes, when Akira needed the money, he would do some day-labor construction, but mostly, he would just lounge around at home for a while, reading, playing video games, being Mona's cuddle slave, and occasionally going to the gym. In the afternoons and evenings, he would go out to meet people. Akira was (mostly) a NEET, but he wasn't a shut-in, by any means.

**So how did that happen?**

The inevitable question. Akira told a different story to everyone. He told one friend his parents were wealthy landowners and let him live in an apartment for free if he helped them with work sometimes, while he filled his time with volunteering. He told another that he was mooching off a friend with money, plus leaning on some savings while he tried to write a book. The guy who sold him his guns, both real and fake—well, he got a story that was a lot closer to the truth, with various details fuzzed and names changed.

So it was with equally casual, automatic ease that Akira told Akechi, **I'm basically a shut-in. I haven't really able to go outside since my mom died.** If he was never going to be seeing this guy in real life anyway, it was as good as story as any.

There was quite a delay before Akechi replied. **You asked me to coffee, though?**

**I can force myself outside, sometimes. Sojiro—he's basically my dad—runs this cafe in the neighborhood. It's not far, and it's familiar. So it's the one place I can go and feel okay.**

“ **Basically” your dad?**

**Ah, he adopted me as a teenager. I was bounced around a lot between relatives until he took me in.**

It wasn't until Akira had sent that message that he belatedly realized he was essentially describing Futaba. Whoops. Well, if he pretended to be Futaba, or a Futaba-esque individual, anyway, he could at least keep his story straight and avoid bungling details. Futaba it was. She would forgive him for it.

Akechi didn't reply for a solid hour after that. Akira waffled between trying to read into his seemingly-random silences and sensibly telling himself that he was probably just doing stuff, and that a slow response probably had nothing to do with their conversation. Probably.

Eventually, Akechi's reply pinged on his phone.

**It can be overwhelming to force yourself into something all at once. Breaking it into small daily goals makes it doable. It's just about the patterns your mind falls into. So you slowly make new patterns.**

It took three reads until Akira realized that Akechi was trying to give him advice about getting out of the house. It was so sudden and awkward, Akira hadn't even gotten what he was trying to say. He'd sort of been expecting something typical, like “Oh, I'm so sorry,” or “Wow, that sounds rough.” He was kind of touched that Akechi was trying to be helpful.

 **Yeah, you're right. I tried to go to Comiket out of the blue last year and it was a total disaster, haha.** It really had been. Futaba had wanted to go _so badly._ But it was like suddenly going to Nightmare mode. It wasn't going to happen, no matter how much she'd gritted her teeth and tried to force herself into it. Akira had practically carried her out of the venue.

 **The fact that you're even trying instead of resigning yourself means you'll make progress,** Akechi replied.

**You sound like you're talking from experience, here.**

**Aha, well, I've never quite been a shut-in, but I've had difficulties. I understand it's not that easy to just go out and engage with the world.**

“Difficulties” was the vaguest expression in the world. Goro Akechi had a reputation for being a very private person, and it seemed that reputation was earned.

 **It's a lot easier on the internet, all right. Or via text,** Akira replied.

**Yes, you can control how you present yourself.**

**Are you controlling how you present yourself right now?**

**Are you, "Joker"?**

**I'll take that as a yes,** Akira typed.

**Everyone puts on a certain face when dealing with others. It's just about how conscious you are of it. Either you put on a face, or you don't engage with the world at all.**

**Is being cryptic a trait that all writers have, or is it just you?**

**Aha, perhaps it's just me.**

**You're a unique individual, then.**

**I am.**

**And a modest one.**

**Definitely.**

Akira could just imagine him typing that remark with a snarky look on his face.

 **Anyway,** Akechi added, **I really have to get to work. I'll chat with you again later.**

**Yeah, later.**

Akira dumped his phone on the side table by the couch and decided to go harass Morgana for cuddles.

x x x

Akira was on the back of Ryuji's bike as they were riding toward Leblanc when they noticed they had trouble on their tail.

“Ryuji…” Akira said through his helmet headset.

“Agh, not again…” Ryuji moaned.

“You're going thirty kilometers over the speed limit…”

“Everybody does it! I just have a fucking _reaper_ who chases me around for it!”

Said “reaper” was a police motorcycle that pulled up beside them at the next red light, gesturing for them to pull over. Ryuji reluctantly complied.

After their bikes were parked, said police officer dismounted, flipped up her helmet visor and approached them with a clipboard from her rear luggage.

“I fucking knew it!” Ryuji flipped up his helmet visor so he could glare at the cop. It's you again!” he griped, still astride the bike.

“You may address me as Officer Nijima,” the cop said smoothly. “Now why don't you dismount your motorcycle so you can show me your license and registration?”

“You saw them both like, three weeks ago! I swear to you, shit hasn't changed!” Ryuji flung his arms wide in an angry gesture.

Antagonizing traffic cops was a bad habit of Ryuji's. Akira decided it was best to intervene. He hopped off the bike and pulled his helmet off, shaking out his curls, and placed himself just a little too much in the officer's personal space. “I'm really sorry, officer,” he said as he strategically arranged his bangs. “I know we were driving too fast. But Ryuji's been way more careful, lately. I think you just caught him at a bad moment.”

Officer Nijima desperately attempted to maintain her tough cop facade, but he could see the red tinge rising in her ears. Akira unzipped his leather riding jacket just a little too slowly to reveal the form-fitting T-shirt he wore underneath it. Making it look like he was just scratching, he pushed his shirt up a bit to give her a brief flash of stomach. And his pants were riding a little low.

Officer Nijima's mouth was pulled in a thin line, but her eyes were locked right where he wanted them.

“You know Ryuji's super broke,” Akira said, giving her his best innocent look. “I can work some extra to help him pay the ticket, I mean, it's my responsibility, too, but we're already pretty hard-up this month, since Morgana had to go to the vet…” he bit his lip lightly, and shot her a sultry look.

Officer Nijima's tone was even, but her neck was red and she was licking her lips. “I'll let you off with a warning, this time, but if I see you again in the next three months, I'll fining you double,” she said, and knocked down her visor, then spun around and went back to her bike.

“Thanks so much, Officer Makoto! I promise I'll keep an eye on him!” Akira waved at her.

The cop put away her clipboard and got back on her bike, then pressed the starter a bunch of times to no avail before it seemed she realized the kickstand was still down, preventing ignition. She kicked it up, awkwardly duck-walked her bike off the curb, and drove away without a backward glance.

“…Has she always been that thirsty for you?” Ryuji asked Akira, an awed expression on his face.

“I went to this police motorcycle rally a while ago where she was competing on the cone course,” Akira explained as he zipped up his jacket and pulled on his helmet. “I recognized her from all the times she's pulled you over, and I asked her out for drinks. We had a good time.”

“Did you…pick up Makoto Nijima just so you could seduce your way out of traffic tickets?” Ryuji said, aghast.

“I did it for you, Ryuji,” Akira grinned at him, then smacked down his visor and got back on the bike.

“The hero we deserve,” Ryuji muttered as they drove off again.

x x x

Leblanc, as usual, didn't have much in the way of customers. It was just one guy in the inner booth, while Futaba, Akira and Ryuji shared the middle booth, spooning down curry as they chatted about nothing important.

“Did you actually for real sext Goro Akechi?!” Futaba demanded, leaning over toward Akira, who sat beside her on the outside seat. “Show me the proof! I need proof!”

Akira leaned away from her into the aisle, holding his phone up and away from her. “I'm not showing you Akechi's dick pics.”

“There were _dick pics?!_ ” Futaba practically screeched, then realized she was being too loud and covered her mouth. “Ahem. Come on. Please?” She gave him her best doe-eyed, puppy-dog look.

“I'm not gonna violate his privacy,” Akira said. “…too much.” He turned around his phone to show her the ab shot Akechi had sent him, then followed that up by showing her such golden lines as, _T_ _ell me how much you want it. Beg me, and I might give you another picture._

Futaba tried to grab his phone and see the rest, but Akira snatched it away from her.

“I'm gonna hack your phone,” she threatened. “I need to see more.”

“Uh-uh, we had a deal!” Akira wagged his finger at her. “You stay out of my phone, and I go to doujinshi events for you. Do you want me to go to that upcoming _Featherman_ event for you, or not?”

“You can't hold _Featherman_ doujin hostage…that's not fair…”

“And hacking my phone is illegal. Suck it up.” They were all fully aware of the irony of Akira berating her for illegal activity.

Futaba sighed and scooted back toward her curry. Ryuji was engaged with stuffing his face and merely rolled his eyes and their antics.

“So what, are you guys gonna meet up?” Futaba asked.

“No,” Akira replied. “He doesn't want to, for some reason.”

Futaba snorted. “What? Why not?”

“I'm not sure. They say he's super private, though. I suppose he just wants the common rabble out of his personal life.”

“If you're exchanging dick pics, you're kinda already in each others' personal lives.”

“Not necessarily,” Ryuji muttered vaguely around his curry.

“You're saying you've exchanged dick pics with strangers?!” Futaba gasped dramatically. “And I thought you were so innocent and pure!”

“You know I'm not!” Ryuji growled, but his face was red. He was just so easy to embarrass, it made him such fun to tease. “How about _your_ sex life, Futaba? Have you custom-ordered a dildo shaped like Blue Fox's dick yet?”

It was about then when the other customer in the cafe quietly escorted themselves out, and Sojiro, behind the bar, sighed loudly.

“Sorry, Mr. Sakura!” Akira made an apologetic gesture to the older man. “Can I get another mocha, though, please? Put it on Futaba's tab.”

“Coming right up,” Mr. Sakura reached out to pick up a cup and get it started.

Futaba's good mood quickly dried up upon hearing Ryuji's remark, and she pushed her curry away and started leafing through the magazine a previous customer had left on the table instead. “He invited me to come to this event thing, like apparently, some of his art is gonna be displayed in a gallery or something? I dunno. It's kinda far. What am I gonna do, show up and then spend the whole time hiding in the bathroom? I might as well not bother.”

“C'mon, don't say that,” said Akira. “As long as you're trying, you'll make progress, you know? Maybe you can make it. When is this event?”

“The meet-the-artists thing is in a month, and then the art'll be on display for a couple more weeks after that, he says.” Futaba paused in her magazine-flipping on a page. “Oh, hey.” She grabbed the magazine and showed them a spread. “I think this is that show. Look at this weird abstract shit.” There was a two-page spread the featured a number of pieces that were apparently going to be in this gallery show, and a lot of them were indeed pretty abstract. There was this one on the right side of the page that was a swirl of dark colors with a brush style reminiscent of traditional watercolor paintings, but turned up to eleven in a big, twisting morass.

“What is this shit? It looks like Van Gogh and Jackson Pollock had unsatisfying sex on a saggy canvas,” Futaba remarked. “Who paints this stuff?”

Akira leaned in to look at the image. Futaba's description was unflattering but not wholly inaccurate. “Yusuke Kitagawa, it says.”

“Some guy, I guess.” Futaba shrugged. “I don't get it.”

“If there were a big dick in the middle, you'd be interested,” Ryuji snorted.

“Touche.”

Mr. Sakura brought the mocha to their table, and Akira thanked him with a smile before taking a sip. Eyeing his drink, Futaba reached over to grab it and take a sip, too, as was her habit. Well, she was paying for it, after all.

“Anyway, so you've got time until this art show,” Akira pointed out. “You could work up to it? Like go out a little every day, going a little further each time, until you make it to the gallery. Baby steps.”

“Hmm…” Futaba didn't seem convinced.

“I can come with you. Come on. It won't be that bad.”

“You'll actually come with me? Every day?”

“You know I don't have anything better to do. Worst case, Ryuji can come by and drive you home.”

“No way am I getting on a motorcycle with that maniac,” Futaba said vehemently.

“Hey!” Ryuji protested, finally done his curry. “I can obey traffic laws, when I want to!”

“Do you ever want to?” Akira said dryly.

“If Futaba asked, I'd ride slow,” Ryuji said, hiding his bashfulness with a swing from his glass of water. Akira believed him. Futaba basically had them both wrapped around her little fingers.

“Don't believe it,” Futaba shook her head.

The two of them continued to bicker about Ryuji's motorcycling habits, and Akira's attention drifted over to the cafe TV, where the news was on. The volume was down low so he didn't really catch most of what they were saying, but he was close enough to read the scrolling text and captions.

It looked like another one of those berserk incidents—this time, some university student had just gone nuts in the middle of the campus and started attacking people at random. The original string of incidents had been mostly homeless people and refugees, so they hadn't attracted much notice, and people had chalked it up to drugs or mental illness. Now that there had been a string of incidents with university students, it was constantly on the news. The latest theory was some kind of mad cow-esque food poisoning idea, apparently.

“Oh, is this about the berserk incidents?” Futaba leaned over to get a look at the TV, apparently done needling Ryuji. “You know, on the deep web they're saying it's a false flag.”

Akira rolled his eyes. “On the deep web they say everything's a false flag.”

“Either that, or lizard men did it. Or both,” Futaba shrugged. “Anyway, so you know how some of them die, but some of them don't? _Apparently_ the ones who die all have the syllable _ru_ in their names. And if you arrange the first syllables of all their names in order, by year of birth—”

“Futaba, we need to get you outside more,” Ryuji sighed.

x x x

After that, they followed Futaba back to her place, since apparently she had some “shadow stuff” to talk about. Futaba was all about the code words.

Once they were safely in her room and she was leaning back in her chair, she said, “Y'know, it's just hit me that we don't have a name for ourselves, yet? I've been thinking like, phantom something. Phantom…”

“Menaces?” Ryuji supplied. “Pains?”

“Of the Opera?” Akira added.

“You guys suck at this.”

Ryuji flopped on the bed, and Akira joined him, laying his socked feet in Ryuji's lap.

“This isn't actually what you wanted to talk about, is it?” asked Ryuji, leaning against the wall.

“It's not,” Futaba said, turning around to her computer, clacking away a bit at some stuff out of Akira's vision. “I wanted to talk about our next shadow.” Shadow as in target. “You know the last one we did? The banker?” Akira made listening noises, and let Futaba continue.

“So I looked into him, and it turns out he was _also_ paying off the security company manager, who was the one who disabled the security system the night my mom was murdered.” Futaba spun her chair back around again to face them. “Just when I think I've tracked down everyone, there's more. There are so many people connected to this.”

“I'm surprised you don't have a corkboard covered with photos, newspaper clippings, and strings,” Ryuji said dryly.

“Please,” Futaba pushed up her glasses, and they flashed in the light. “I'd never do something that analog. I have a spreadsheet.” Ryuji's response was a snort.

Futaba pulled her knees up in front of her. “I think the research my mom was doing had to be important. I know it was pharmaceutical. But the lab she worked for had insane security. I'm starting to think they maybe only ever did hard copy stuff, and avoided digital storage entirely, just in case they got hacked. You'd have to have a leak from the inside to find out anything about what their actual work was.” She shook her head. “I dunno.”

“So when do you want us hunting the next shadow?” Akira asked. A security company manager seemed significantly less exciting than a banker, but he was still down for it.

“I'll let you know. I'm still hashing out his schedule. You know I wanna make sure you guys can get in and out clean,” Futaba said, a proud tone to her voice. She was very confident about their plans. Akira had been very nervous about this at first, looking over his shoulder and jumping at every shadow (ha), but after months of doing this, it became apparent that no one was after them and they weren't going to get caught, and he'd relaxed.

“How did you get so good at this, anyway?” Ryuji asked, the very question that Akira had been wondering.

“Huh?” Futaba blinked. “I mean, it's all just common sense, right? You spend like five minutes on the deep web reading leaked military documents and you know how assassinations are done. It's actually really simple stuff.”

“If it's so simple, then why aren't people assassinated right and left every day?” Ryuji argued.

“You think they aren't?” Akira said.

Ryuji's mouth opened, then flapped shut, then opened again when he said, “Sometimes, man, you scare the shit out of me.”

“Oh, to be innocent to the ways of the world!” Futaba said pseudo-dramatically. “Do you know how many suicides in this country are actually murders? It's really easy to get rid of someone. _Really_ easy.” The look in her eyes was enough to make Akira shiver a little, too. Futaba came off cute, quirky, and little-sister helpless, so it was easy to forget that behind that was a morass of vindictive anger that had motivated her to step into extreme territory.

Though being the one to execute her plans, Akira was no less extreme. Probably moreso.

“I swear, you two are the only people who treat me like some naive innocent,” Ryuji griped, but he didn't seem that upset about it.

“You'd rather we treat you like a hooligan? A troublemaker? How about you show me your license and registration, your shameless dropout?” Akira teased.

“I finished high school!” Ryuuji protested. “…in juvie.”

“I haven't seen the certificate,” Futaba leered at him, sliding off her chair to approach him. “I think this _naughty_ boy might have been lying to us all this time.” She plopped down in front of him and began giving him a merciless noogie.

“Ow! Cut that out!” Ryuji tried to grab her wrists, but Akira leaned over to snatch his instead so Futaba could continue her torture.

“No fair, man! You two can't gang up on me! Agh!”

Akira held down Ryuji's legs with his own as Futaba went wild, pulling Ryuji's ears and honking his nose while she was at it, too, only letting up when Ryuji finally broke down and said what they all knew she wanted to hear: “Agh! Fine! I'm a very naughty boy and I deserve to be punished! Are you happy, now?!”

Futaba graciously ended his torture, grinning, then apologized with a big hug around his middle, leaning into Ryuji's chest. “Thanks, though, really…I couldn't do without you guys.” Her face was turned toward Akira. “I really couldn't do without you guys,” she repeated, and Akira felt the weight of her words.

Ryuji hugged her back bashfully. “Hey, you help us out too, right? I wouldn't be able to race without that bike you bought for me. We all help each other out.”

“You're our sugar momma, Futaba,” Akira joked.

“Yeah…I guess,” Futaba said, but Akira could tell from looking at her face that she didn't really believe that meant anything.

x x x

Futaba's first sortie out of the house came the next morning. Since she could already get herself to Leblanc on good days, they decided they'd go up to the train station together, spend a little bit of time there, just to get used to the environment, then go back home.

Since they were both in the habit of sleeping late, Akira swung by her place around one in the afternoon to drag her out of bed. “We're going out today, remember?” He reminded her, hands hovering threateningly around her foot region as she huddled under the covers.

“Agh…later…” Futaba mumbled, fully ready to fall back asleep. She had the worst sleep hygiene of anyone Akira knew, including himself, which was saying something.

This require drastic action. He reached under the covers, grabbed her by the ankle and commenced tickling.

Futaba shrieked and kicked, but Akira maintained his grip until she tumbled out of bed onto the floor in her night shirt and underwear. “I get it, I get it, I'm up!” she cried, pushing herself off the ground with a moan. “I was having such a nice dream, too…”

Akira took a seat on his chair and checked his phone while Futaba got dressed and psyched herself up to go outside. He had a message from Akechi.

**You should send me another picture.**

Akira grinned at his phone. **What, you thirsty right now?** He replied.

**Just do it.**

**Only if I get one from you, first,** Akira wheedled.

**Of what?**

**Show me your ass.**

Akechi didn't reply immediately, which Akira assumed with hope in his heart was him taking the time to get the perfect shot.

“Hello!” Futaba waved in front of his face. “Your eyes are really glazed over right now. Are you looking at porn on your phone again?”

Why was it everyone always assumed he was looking at porn on his phone? “No, sexting Akechi.”

“Show meeee!”

“Once you make it to the train station.”

“Agh, fine.”

It looked like Futaba was ready to go, so Akira stood and pushed open the door, leading her out of the house.

She only hesitated a moment at the front door—this part, at least, she was mostly done with. As they walked, Futaba babbled on about various things, from the new _Featherman_ series, weird stuff she'd read on the deep web, to stuff that Blue Fox was tweeting about. Akira sort of half paid-attention, as he generally did when she went on a ramble. She was doing this more to distract herself than out of any expectation that he retain it all, anyway.

Akira was a little distracted himself, checking his phone periodically to see if Akechi had replied with the picture he'd requested. Still no luck.

The walk to the station was only ten minutes, and they were there surprisingly quickly. When they got to the station, Futaba bought a drink from the vending machine there—one that wasn't sold in the machine nearer her house.

“That went okay, right?” Akira said as they sat down on the bench in front of the station.

“Yeah…this isn't so bad,” Futaba admitted, sipping her drink. “Maybe we can try going on the train, tomorrow? Just one station.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Akira agreed. “We'll make sure not to go around rush hour. Not yet, anyway.”

“Mm.” Futaba nodded.

That was when Akira's phone dinged, and he jumped. He pulled out his phone to see there was a message from Akechi.

It was a picture of his ass—possibly the most _magnificent_ ass Akira had ever seen on a man, facing the camera with hands spreading the cheeks wide to reveal his asshole, just slightly gaping, with tight balls and a hard cock hanging underneath it. He had to have propped his phone on a holder somewhere and set a timer to take this. This was better than typical quick-n-dirty sexting quality.

“Hello? Akira?” Futaba was waving a hand in front of his face. When she leaned in to look at what was on his phone, Akira quickly turned off the screen and tucked it in his pocket.

“Um…listen, Futaba…I've got to go… I think you can manage walking home by yourself…right?” Akira smiled nervously.

Futaba pouted at him. “That's not what we promised.”

“Yeah, but…working on this stuff by yourself is good, too, right? And it's not like you can't handle this much.”

Futaba glared at him. “You're a dick, Akira. And you're not hiding that boner very well. What did Akechi send you?”

Akira swiftly stood up, stuck a hand in his pocket to restrain his rising erection, and began edging away into the station. “I'll see you later, okay! Text me when you get home!”

“Jerk!” Futaba yelled after him, but Akira was swiftly striding through the ticket gates, beeping his wallet as he went through, heading straight for the station bathroom, where he picked the least-gross stall, locked it behind him, and pulled out his cell phone with one hand and his dick with the other.

 **Why'd you have to send me that now?** He typed. **I was at the cafe. You got me hard in public.**

Akechi replied with a naughty face emote.

 **I'm beating off in the bathroom there right now,** Akira said, **thinking about fucking that big ass of yours.**

 **You couldn't even wait?** Akechi replied.

**Not a second. I just want to slam my cock all the way into your tight asshole and feel it squeeze around me.**

**Your turn to send a picture,** was all Akechi replied. **Prove to me you're beating off in the bathroom.**

Akira turned around so the toilet would be in the background of the image, lowered his pants down a bit and hiked his shirt up to hold in his teeth, then held his cock in his left hand as he took a selfie with his right, making sure to keep his face out of the picture. There was no particular reason for that—it just sort of felt like that's where this relationship was. Though he knew who Akechi the public figure was, neither of them were really showing their faces, literally, or metaphorically—Akechi probably just didn't trust anyone to have sexual photos of himself, so he kept his face out to maintain deniability, and though Akira wasn't in the sort of position in life where nudes being exposed would matter to him, he didn't really want to show Akechi his face, either.

With Akechi, he would be Joker, the horny shut-in with a great body who had nothing better to do than service a thirsty celebrity's sexual whims via semi-anonymous sexting. It was the digital version of picking random guys up in a public restroom.

And well, he was sort of in a public restroom.

He sent the picture to Akechi.

 **I can't believe it. You just can't control yourself, can you?** Came Akechi's reply.

 **I wish I could fuck you right now in this stall,** Akira replied, turning around again to lean back against the stall door and continue to jerk himself. **I'd fuck you from behind against the stall door with a hand over your mouth to keep you from moaning.**

**I want you to fuck me hard. I want you to fuck me until I can't help but scream for the whole cafe to hear.**

That mental image was enough to take Akira over the edge, and he came in his hand, then took a picture of it to send to Akechi. **Just thinking about it made me cum. Fuck.**

He was kind of surprised. Akechi seemed eager to hear him dirty-talk, but hesitant about it himself. He'd gotten the initial feeling like Akechi wanted to be in control, but maybe that was just a front.

That was hot.

 **You like getting fucked hard?** Akira asked him.

There was a bit of a pause, then a reply. **I like to be humiliated.**

“Oh shit,” Akira laughed a bit, wiping himself off with some toilet paper and flushing it away. “That's really fucking hot,” he muttered to himself. **I would totally make all your fantasies come true if you let me!**

 **This is enough for me,** Akechi replied. **If this frustrates you, we can stop any time.**

 _Just what is his deal?_ Akira wondered as he washed his hands and left the washroom. **It's okay. It's not like I'm celibate. If I want sex, I can get it.**

 **Really?** Was Akira imagining that skepticism?

 **I have a buddy who comes over sometimes. We're not serious or anything.** Akira tried not to think about why he felt the need to assert that things were not serious between him and Ryuji.

**I have my share of partners, too.**

**Wait, so you'll fuck around, but you won't fuck me? What's the deal there?**

A bit of a pause. **I'll only sleep with strangers. And once it's done, it's done.**

**Wait, so you don't want to sleep with me because I don't count as a stranger? Or because you don't want to pump and dump me? It doesn't have to be like that, you know. Fuck buddies are a thing that exist.**

Akechi didn't reply.

x x x

Over the next couple of weeks, Akira would go to Futaba's place during the day to go out with her a little further than they had the day before. Progress was surprisingly good, aside from the one day they got up to late and ended up caught in the train station during rush hour. They ended up just walking back the whole way, six stops, by which point Futaba was exhausted and flopped straight into bed.

“This has got to be most exercise than you've gotten in the last year,” Akira said to her as she moaned in bed. “It's good for you.”

“I know, I know.”

“How about you try going out yourself tomorrow? Without me,” Akira suggested, standing by her bed. He wanted sit in her chair, but that was Futaba's throne. She didn't allow commoners to dirty it with their common butts. Her words.

“No!” Futaba protested. “You promised. I need your help for this. Besides, you'll becoming with me on the day of the gallery show, right? So it's not like I have to go alone.”

She had a point. And it wasn't like he had anything better to do. There was no real reason for him to turn her down. And he liked that Futaba relied on him. He just wished she would let go of the apron strings a little. She was kinda past the age where it was cute.

“You could at least go a couple stations on your own, right?” Akira prodded her.

“Is it a pain for you to come over every day?” Futaba rolled on her side toward him, a sulky expression on her face.

“That's not it. It's just, you want to be able to do this stuff on your own, too, right?”

Futaba didn't say anything.

“Agh… fine, I'll come, I'll come.”

“Yay!” Futaba's face burst into smiles, and Akira felt rather manipulated. Oh, well. She was cute when she was manipulative.

x x x

Akechi texted him again, he completely ignored their previous conversation, simply prompting Akira for sexy pics. Which was fine, and Akira was happy to comply. Whatever Akechi's deal was, it seemed he wanted to keep Akira at arm's length. Which was understandable enough, if mildly frustrating.

When Akira's phone dinged again that evening, he was in the middle of making dinner—nothing too complicated, just a bunch of junk thrown into a frying pan with some rice on the side, but when he cooked, it generally turned out tasting okay, and he always made extra for leftovers for himself or Ryuji. In his idle moments, Akira thought he'd make a pretty good house husband, if anyone would ever take him. He could cook, was generally the one cleaning up after Ryuji rather than the other way around, he could handle household finances, and he would be absolutely delighted to do it all wearing an apron and nothing else.

These silly thoughts were interrupted by the second ding of his phone, however, and Akira sighed, turned off the burner and pulled the pan off the stove as he picked up his phone off the counter to look at his messages, expecting to a text from Akechi begging for cock while trying not to sound like he was begging for it.

He was surprised to see that the messages were actually from Futaba, through her secure app.

**Joker. Remember that security company manager who was gonna be our next shadow? He's dead. And the police have declared it a suicide.**

Akira stared at his phone and recalled what Futaba had said just the other day.

_Do you know how many suicides in this country are actually murders?_

 


	3. Making Connections

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a chapter of confidantes. Confidantes, confidantes, everywhere.
> 
> A “Christmas cake” is a rather dated term for a woman over 25. Because no one wants a woman after her 25th. Ha ha. Osechi is traditional New Year's food, and it's mostly preserved stuff like salted fish, so it lasts forever, and you'll be eating it for a solid week after New Year's. It's grossly overpriced and doesn't taste good, tbh.
> 
> I apologize for this lame joke that literally two people would get had I not explained it.

 

**Remember that security company manager who was gonna be our next shadow? He's dead. And the police have declared it a suicide.**

Akira replied to Futaba immediately. **It's not actually a suicide, is it?**

**Duh. People in suspicious positions don't just drop dead that conveniently. Anyway, I'm gonna be looking into this. We're not doing anything until I get a handle on what's going on. I'll let you know when I have more info.**

**I know someone I might be able to poke for information,** Akira told her. **I can't promise much. But I might be able to get you some leads.**

Akira tucked his phone away, munched at some of his dinner straight out of the pan, then put it all away in the fridge in some plastic containers with a little sticky note saying _I want to be inside you, Ryuji♡_ and got dressed to go out.

x x x

Akira arrived at Crossroads early, and Ohya had the tendency to be rather late, so he said hello to Lala, then scoped out the bar for people who looked like they'd be interesting to chat with.

His eye immediately landed on a woman, somewhere in her thirties, sitting alone at the bar glowering into her drink. She was dressed like someone who was trying to see just how far she could flout company dress code before getting written up. Her skirt suit was adorned with various gothy accessories, her make-up style was less “office bland” and more “goth band,” and her heels were a little too high to be professional.

“Bad day at work?” Akira sat down next to her casually, taking a sip of his Asahi. His tastes were cheap.

The woman jolted a little at being spoken to, then snorted. “Am I that obvious? Agh, I'm sure everyone here has to deal with shit jobs. I'm nothing special,” she said, knocking back her drink with a sour look on her face.

“Every shit job is shit in its own special way,” Akira said with his classic charming smile.

It seemed this woman wasn't immune to his charm, as she gave him a little smile in return. “Do you honestly want to listen to a total stranger bitch about her job? There are people here paid to do that, you know.”

Akira shrugged. “I'm trying to write a book, and talking to different people gives me ideas. If I just stay at home and write what's in my head, all the characters come out talking and acting like me. So this is research.”

“Really?” Her tone was skeptical, and she didn't really seem to buy it, but Akira knew that most people were just dying to complain about work and it was a great way to break the ice. It seemed this woman was no exception, as she began a lengthy diatribe. “I _could_ complain about the hours, which involve ridiculous amounts of unpaid overtime. I _could_ complain about my knuckle-dragging ape of a section chief, who can't go a week without commenting on my appearance. I _could_ complain about the absolutely disastrous management decisions that cause setback after setback after setback. I could complain about how I'm enormously overqualified for this ridiculously petty, mind-numbing lab work, and I have more education than both the section chief _and_ general manager, both of whom are _grossly_ incompetent. But no, all of these things are par for the course. What do you expect, working for a large company?” She paused to order another drink. “No, my problem is that their business practices are like something out of the Unit 731 playbook.”

Akira blinked at her, and she sighed and put down her drink. “I'm drunk. I really shouldn't be talking about this. Well, I'm sure you don't even know what I'm talking about. They've had all _that_ cut out of the textbooks for years now, haven't they? How old are you?”

“Old enough that I've forgotten everything I learned in school. I dropped out of high school, anyway.”

“Really?” she seemed surprised.

“Me and traditional education never got along,” Akira said, fingers playing with his drink. “I'm Akira, by the way.”

“Tae Takemi.”

That seemed to ring a bell somewhere. “I feel like I've heard that name somewhere.”

“Is that the line you always use to pick up women in bars?” Takemi's cheeks were a little pink as she sipped her drink.

“I have better lines than that,” Akira said with a grin. “If I _wanted_ to pick you up, I would mention how I love a woman who can flout office dress code and get away with it. But actually, I do think I remember you from somewhere. Or I've at least heard your name. Did you ever…live near Yongen-Jaya?”

Takemi breathed a deep, deep sigh. “I used to have a practice in Yongen-Jaya.”

“That's it!” Akira clapped his hands. “You were Futaba's doctor! Do you remember Futaba Sakura?”

Takemi blinked, and then slowly smiled, for the first time that evening. “Futaba Sakura? You know her? Yes, she was a patient of mine. Ha-ha, it's a small world, isn't it? How do you know her? Is she doing well?”

“We've been friends for years—we met online. Well…she gets out of the house a little more, now.”

“I'm so glad to hear that she's made friends,” Takemi said, and she sounded sincere. “When I was practicing, she'd never even come into the clinic. The only way she'd let a doctor see her was if I came over to her house, and she'd wear a ridiculous giant head to cover her face and never say a word the whole time. I had to hear everything second-hand.” Takemi giggled. “It was so stressful at the time, but saying it out loud now, it sounds rather ridiculous.” Then she sighed again, the smile leaking off her face. “I suppose saying this is breaching doctor-patient confidentiality, but I'm not bound by that anymore, anyway.”

“What happened?” Akira asked her.

“Agh, it's a long, stupid story. I lost my license to practice. I started working for a pharmaceutical company, thinking at least I could get involved in some medical research, but little did I know I would be working for _literally_ Belial.”

That was the moment Ohya chose to pop in sliding in between Akira and Takemi. “Akira! Sorry I'm late, stuff happened,” she said. Her hawk eyes narrowed on Takemi. “Did I just hear the words _pharmaceutical company_ and _the devil_?”

Takemi looked between Ohya and Akira, finished off her drink, and stood up. “I think I should get going.”

Akira was about to stop her, but Ohya was about a hundred times faster on the punch than he was, shooting out to block Takemi's exit and whip out a business card, held politely in both hands, card facing Takemi. “Hi there, Ichiko Ohya, freelance journalist. If you wouldn't mind talking to be about your place of employment—anonymously, of course—we could come to an agreement that would benefit both of us.”

Takemi seemed a little stunned by Ohya's zippy and aggressive manner, but took the business card with a little bow, saying “Thank you. Um…I'll think about it.”

“Do you have a card?” Ohya asked smoothly. “Just so I can remember you.”

Unbelievably, Takemi actually did pull out her business card holder, passing Ohya her card before wandering to the cash to pay, and then going out the door.

“Wow,” said Akira, impressed, as Ohya turned around triumphantly with Takemi's business card in hand.

“Being pushy always pays,” Ohya shrugged, and flopped herself down on Takemi's vacated bar seat as she looked at the business card in her hands. “Laboratory researcher at Kurohara L. Pharmaceutical, eh? Ohh, this is fresh.”

“Can I see?” Akira asked. “I wanted to ask her number, too, but she ran off too quick. I think she thinks we're an item and didn't want to intrude.”

“Are we not an item?” Ohya said in mock offense, handing Akira the business card.

“I just assumed it was never to be, considering how you're so out of my league,” he replied as he examined the card—the style was simple and professional, and KUROHARA L. was all written out in capital letters, in the Roman alphabet. Trying to look foreign and international, he supposed. He registered the phone number and email in his phone under _Tae Takemi_ , adding in the note _laboratory researcher at Kurohara L. Pharma._ Akira had a great memory for names and faces, largely thanks to how much effort he put into it.

Ohya smirked at him as she took the card back and carefully tucked it away in her business card holder. “Come on, I know you're a lady-killer. You've finally grown out your hair, too. You look way better like this. And I dig the fake glasses.” She reached out to tug at a lock of his hair flirtatiously, and Akira grinned in response.

“I thought you liked me best in a wig?” he teased.

“I would like you _best_ if you grew your hair out that long for real,” Ohya said, and suddenly, there was a drink at her side, without her even having ordered it. Ohya spent way too much time here. “You make _such_ a pretty girl.”

“That'll take another year, at least, and a lot of maintenance. But I'll consider it—just for you.” When Akira had first left the SDF, he'd been so overdosed on the macho lifestyle, his immediate response had been to get a job at an okama bar in a fit of swishy rebellion. That bar had been Crossroads, where had made quick friends with Ohya. He'd helped her with a piece she was doing on propaganda in the military, and she'd filled him in on the sort of juicy insiders political scandal news he lived for. Plus gossip on Goro Akechi.

Working at Crossroads had also honed Akira's flirting skills to peak game. It had been worth it for that alone.

“Oh, you spoil me,” said Ohya, taking an aggressive swig of her drink. “But who're you _actually_ dating, these days? That bleach-blond boy with the motorcycle?”

“Ah, Ryuji? Naw, we're just friends. I don't have anything serious going on.”

“Still flirting with everybody and dating nobody? That's a lot of work for not a lot of payoff.”

“Flirting is its own reward,” Akira said, with a look that very much added, _especially when I'm flirting with you._

Ohya shook her head. “Here's some advice from a real Christmas cake—actually, at this point, I'm long past even osechi. Ha!” She barked a laugh at her own joke. “Good thing it's all preserved food, am I right? Anyway, if you're lonely long enough, you start to get used to it. Dating starts to seem uncomfortable. And before you know it, you're driving people away because you can't stand the idea of _not_ being alone. But you can't take being alone, either. And that leads you…” Ohya paused and knocked back the rest of her drink. “…to this, basically.”

“I'm surprised to hear this sort of honesty out of you when you're not even drunk yet,” Akira said dryly.

“Hey,” Ohya blushed. “Ichiko Ohya is _all_ about honesty. All honesty, all the time.”

“Uh-huh. And that article about Risette's torrid love affair was a hundred percent honest?”

“There were some embellishments. But it was based on mostly fact.”

“Uh-huh,” Akira teased. “Any legit work lately, though?”

“Ugh,” Ohya leaned against the bar dramatically. “Hardly anything. If you want to write for big newspapers these days, you have to be sucking hard on Shido's cock the whole time. It's fucking impossible to print anything about corruption. All the major publications are locked down. You can wail away online all you want for paltry ad revenue, but there's no money in it, and you're bound to get sued for libel and shut down. And all anyone wants to read is entertainment shit.” Ohya groaned. “Lala! I need another drink! You better not be watering down my shots!” she called over the bar, then groaned again. “I fucking hate people.”

“You still doing real journalism, though?” Akira asked, ordering another drink from Lala as she passed by.

“Of course I'm fucking doing real journalism. I just can't get paid for it, and nobody reads my shit. People are fucking stupid sheep. Fuck this country. They won't even notice what's going on until we're all fucking seig heiling Fuhrer Shido. Or maybe they just don't care.”

Akira raised an eyebrow. Ohya had a tendency to exaggerate—as you'd expect, given her profession. “Do you actually think that's where were headed?”

“Damn straight I do,” Ohya said, immediately throwing back half the drink Lala brought her. “You've been in the military. You've seen the propaganda, you've seen the military expansion. The press has been slowly strangled into submission. Corruption is everywhere, and the dirtiest are all untouchable. Do you need me to go down the list?”

Akira had been deeply cynical about politics for a long time, but part of him had still been resistant to calling anything that was happening actual fascism. It sounded…hyperbolic. It wasn't like there was any torture or concentration camps or war crimes going on. It was just business as usual. “I get where you're coming from, but…I dunno.” He scratched the back of his head.

“You've read Toranosuke Yoshida's books, haven't you?” Ohya shot back, pointing at him. “He talked about all of this. He predicted this would happen, and it's all playing out just like he said. And he said it would end in fascism. Just you wait and see.” Ohya scowled. “Actually, wait, no, don't wait and see! Kids like you should be out on the streets protesting, or some shit.”

“Been there, done that,” Akira muttered. “I'm not sure it actually works.”

“I'm not sure it works, either, to be honest, but you've got to do something.”

“Yeah…” Akira considered for a moment, then asked, “how easy is it to assassinate someone?”

Ohya spewed booze out her nose, then winced and dabbed at herself with a napkin. “That's not what I meant when I said, _you've got to do something,_ Akira.”

Akira laughed. “Why is that the first place your mind went?! No, I meant, since you're all about digging into corruption and…there was what happened with your old partner. So I figured political assassinations would be something you research a lot.”

Ohya's expression turned serious. “Oh, you mean like Okumura?”

“Yeah, like Okumura.” That had been a particularly high-profile assassination a scant few months before Shido's first election. Or rather, “suicide.” The man had made a public announcement on TV confessing to a whole slew of misdeeds, and then had gone home and committed _traditional seppuku,_ of all things, out of guilt. Or rather, that was the official story. Quite obviously, someone had blackmailed him into the confession (and who knew if all the things he'd confessed to had been his own work or just pinned on him), then killed him and staged it like a suicide—at least, it was obvious to everyone with a brain. And not everyone had a brain.

“I'm not bullshitting you when I say it's been on the upswing. It's hard to say what's actually an assassination and what's not, but… I've been researching this for years, and there have been more high-profile suicides, unexplained disappearances and death by sudden illness during his two terms than any other prime minister for the past half-century. No joke.”

_How nice to know I'm a part of a broader trend,_ Akira thought wryly to himself. “I guess it's hard to find out who's behind them.”

“No shit,” Ohya said. “Going down that route, you'll find more conspiracy theories than real info. People trying to connect various deaths in all sorts of ridiculous ways. Humans are pattern-seeking creatures. We try to link anything together. Nine times out of ten, it's bullshit.” Ohya ordered another drink. She moved fast, as usual.

Akira leaned against the bar, pillowing his chin on his hand to look at Ohya. “But this is you we're talking about. You must have learned _something._ ”

Ohya did like having her journalistic ego stroked. “Eh-heh. Well, I don't have enough to publish, but I have some semi-substantiated theories. I _do_ think…” and here, she lowered her voice, eyes sliding around them to make sure no one was listening in as she leaned toward Akira, “…Shido has a personal hitman or hitmen to eliminate political inconveniences. This part is fairly common opinion in certain circles. He has too many people around him disappearing for it to be coincidence. And knocking off one or two people is fairly simple, especially if you have ties with organized crime—but doing it this smoothly over and over is something else. I think he has a personal team—no more than four people, possibly only one guy—who are _personally_ loyal to him only, and not tied to the yakuza. And whoever they are, they're good.” Ohya straightened in her seat again. “But like I said, that's just conjecture.”

“Have you heard about Taro Shibahara?” Akira asked. That was the name of the security company manager who was to have been their next target.

“Um…” Ohya's eyeballs shot up and right as if she were accessing her news memory banks. “Oh! Recent suicide, right? Security company manager? He's really no one major, so I haven't much looked into him. He was barely a blip in the news—you'd have to be looking for suicides to know about that one.” She gave him Akira a pointed look.

Akira ignored her implication. “You think he was an actual suicide?”

“Hell no. He was recently promoted. Nobody kills themselves after a promotion.”

“So why would someone kill this guy?”

“Isn't it obvious?”

Akira raised an eyebrow at her.

Ohya waved a hand in a meaningless gesture. “Hello! Security company! He's spent his career sitting behind cameras and watching shit happen. He probably learned something he shouldn't have, and they couldn't trust him to keep his mouth shut. And If you wanna know who did it—” Ohya paused for effect— “it's always the most obvious answer. Who benefits from his death?”

“When you put it that way, it does sound obvious,” Akira said.

“It's depressingly obvious.” Ohya looked down at her drink. “So why is it I seem to be the only one who sees this stuff? Maybe I'm the crazy one,” she muttered, and took a swig.

“We've got to stop talking about politics before you destroy your liver,” Akira joked, giving her a playful kick in the foot.

“Too late, already gone,” Ohya burped. “But fine. We can talk about not politics. How about that book you keep telling me you're writing?”

“Oh, that, aha,” Akira laughed. “I keep getting derailed into writing sex scenes. Maybe I should just write erotica instead.”

Ohya cackled at him. “Sex always sells! It wouldn't be a bad move. What sort of sexy nonsense are you getting derailed into?”

“Oh, well, the protagonist meets someone online, and there was going to be a plot and everything, but then I just started writing them sexting and it went downhill from there.”

“Drawing on life experience?” Ohya smirked as she took another drink.

Akira totally hadn't been thinking about it when the words had come out of his mouth, but now that Ohya pointed it out, he found himself blushing. “Not really…”

“That's a lie,” said Ohya. Akira winced. He lied to Ohya about as much as he did to most people aside from Futaba and Ryuji, but he was never sure just how much of his bullshit she believed. She was in the business of ripping through liars, after all. Part of him wondered if she was just playing along with this whole “writing a novel” story for laughs, or if she actually believed he was doing it.

“You said you don't have anything serious going on,” she added.

“I don't.”

“But you want it to be.”

Akira went redder.

“Just say what you want,” Ohya said, her tone unusually kind. “Be honest about your intentions. That's the only way to get anywhere in a relationship. There's no point in wasting time beating around the bush and playing games. Who's got the time for that?”

“I have the time for that,” Akira pointed out.

“Agh, I wish I were unemployed like you…or wait, I don't…but…agh…”

“And should I really be taking dating advice from stale osechi?”

“HA!” Ohya smacked the bar with a hand. She was pretty good and drunk by this point, after who knew how many drinks. “You just had to throw my joke back at me, huh? Well, touche.”

The two of them exchanged jabs for a while longer until Lala cut Ohya off, at which point Ohya griped and demanded more booze and didn't get it. After Ohya generously paid for them both, Akira tactfully dragged her out of the bar and they went wandering toward the train station. Ohya had a terrifying ability to walk and carry herself like a sober person when she was drunk as shit, but the brain inside her head was still sloshed, and she talked extremely loud and very close to Akira's ear.

When they finally parted ways at the train station, Ohya smacked him on the back and mussed his hair as if she couldn't decide if he was a drinking buddy or her adorable little nephew and said, “You're a good guy, Akira. I really like you. Don't grow up to be a rotten adult like me.”

“Don't I count as an adult yet?” Akira was only mildly indignant.

“Nah. Everyone below twenty-five is a baby.” Then Ohya staggered away to her train.

“I'm twenty-five, though…” Akira muttered to no one in particular.

x x x

Akira was sober enough when he got home that he didn't just flop into bed and fall straight to sleep, but still drunk enough to make bad decisions.

**Akechiiiii,** he texted in bed, not even waiting for a reply before he spewed out a bunch of drunk nonsense that he knew he was going to regret later. **I'm looooonelyyyyy.**

He got a reply surprisingly quickly. It was just: **Um…**

**I'm drunk,** Akira clarified.

**I see.**

**And I know you don't care or anything, that's fine, whatever, but I just wish you were here for cuddles…**

**What about that friend of yours who comes over sometimes?** Akechi asked.

**Oh, well, it's like, he has a lot of friends, but I only have him, and I hate feeling like I depend on him when he'll never feel that way about me, and there are lots of parts of myself I don't want to show him, like he's a really good guy, but I can't…** at some point in this splurge, Akira lost track of whether he was pretending to be Futaba or talking about himself. Some of it seemed right, but some of it seemed wrong. What was he trying to say here again? He was too drunk.

**I can't ever really trust him. Not really,** he finished.

**And you can trust me?** Akira could practically smell the incredulity wafting off that message.

**No. You just seem like you're like me. You won't trust me, will you? Not like I've earned it or anything. But I figured maybe you'd get it.**

There was a long pause, and then the reply,

**I get it.**

x x x

Akira came back from another of his afternoon outings with Futaba to find Ryuji on the couch with a couple of old friends from his high school—Ann Takamaki and Yuuki Mishima. They seemed to be watching a movie, surrounded by snacks and the detritus of a shopping trip that, judging from the sort of bags scattered around them, had probably mostly been Takamaki's idea.

Akira had met the both of them a couple times before, but didn't know either of them particularly well.

They seemed pretty into the movie, so Akira didn't want to bother them too much. He quietly shuffled around in the kitchen for food, found nothing he felt like eating, and so edged into the couch area to pick up a bowl of crunchy snacks with a look at Ryuji asking, _can I eat this?_ Upon receiving the OK, he decided to dig in, idly watching what seemed to be the latter half of a rather intense action movie as he munched away. He had no idea what was going on, but the action scenes seemed decent enough. Key word: decent. When the hero jumped behind a car to protect himself from a shower of bullets, Akira kept his mouth shut, lest he ruin their enjoyment of the movie.

There was someone else he could snark to, though. Akira put down the snack bowl, still munching, and wiped his hands so he could use his phone without getting crumbs all over it.

**Watching a movie with my buddy right now and trying to keep my mouth shut about the action scenes.**

Akechi's brief reply of, **Oh?** came fairly quickly. Over the scant few weeks Akira had been texting him, he'd come to reply quickly at most times of day. Well, he was self-employed, so he could pick up his phone whenever he wanted. Did he not have anything better to do, though?

**The protag just used a car as cover.**

**Aha, most writers can't even bother with a ten minute Google search, can they?** That message came off as incredibly smug.

**You take pride in factual accuracy.** This was a statement, not a question. This was something Akechi had said himself in interviews.

**Of course. Fiction should be a reflection of the real world.**

**Says the guy notorious for writing flat character relationships.**

**You sure like to complain about that.**

**I critique because I love. And I love Akai, but he's flat as hell.**

**Why would you love a character you believe to be flat?**

Akira paused. It was difficult to explain why he liked Akai without revealing real personal details about himself. Akai was a detective who worked for Sana—the brawn to her brains. He was a sharpshooter who'd left the military because he'd chafed at the command structure and questioned their ethics, and had personally sought out Sana as an employer because he admired her work. He was also super cool and stoic in a way that Akira fantasized about being but never would be. He was the rock that Sana leaned on. Akira wanted to be a rock. He did his best to be one.

But Akira had already committed himself to another story, for better or for worse, and even if he weren't bullshitting Akechi, he wouldn't have admitted all that, anyway. So he came up with the Futaba answer. **Fanartists tend to depict him as a sex god.**

**Aha, I've seen some of that art.**

**Are you into it?**

**I mean, some of it is well-done.**

**I'm asking if you've ever beaten off to it,** Akira typed with a leer on his face.

**No comment.**

Akira swallowed a chuckle. **Did you write him to be a sex god?**

**I did not.**

Akira pressed a hand over his mouth so his laughter wouldn't interrupt the movie. Somehow, he just didn't believe that. **LEAN, RIPPLING MUSCLE,** he typed, shoulders shaking as tried not to laugh.

**I haven't used that phrase once in the last two books.** Was he being… _defensive?_

**Because your editor started pointing it out after it became a meme?**

**No comment.**

**FELINE GRACE** , Akira added.

**That's not sexual.**

**ARROGANT LIPS.**

**Lips can be arrogant.**

Akira couldn't hold it in anymore and had to escape to his bedroom so he could laugh freely. He threw himself down on the bed to text furiously. **Admit it! You think Akai is hot! You wrote him to be hot! It's okay! You're allowed to lust after a fictional character!**

**Of COURSE he's meant to be attractive. But if what you're trying to say is that I wrote him as some kind of personal fantasy to make up for an unsatisfying sex life, then that's ABSOLUTELY not the case!**

Akira smothered his laughter in his pillow, tears streaming from his eyes, finally getting enough control over himself to text back. **…I mean, I didn't say that. But if that's what's going on, I could help you with that~**

**THAT'S NER;f**

Akechi had clearly been led to rage-induced typoes, and Akira was dying.

**That's not what's going on,** Akechi corrected himself. **I simply meant to correct what I'm sure are your assumptions.**

**Uh-huh. Sooo, you like to be humiliated, huh? How's that going for you? Finding guys who will do that for you?**

**I shouldn't have told you that.**

**Aw, come on, it's nothing to be ashamed of. …Unless, of course, you WANT to be ashamed of it~**

**Agh…**

**Like, humiliated how?** Akira went on, gleefully. **Like, would it turn you on if I called you a slut, or pathetic, or a slave to my cock? Do you want to be made to beg for it? Or how about sissy stuff?** At this point, he unzipped and started stroking himself, his mind already envisioning Akechi in various situations—right now, he really liked the idea of Akechi on his knees, begging to be allowed to suck Akira's cock.

**I'm not saying anything.**

Akira's mind went in a wicked direction. **Or are you a little embarrassed that your dick is on the small side? Did I wind you up before, when I first challenged you to send me a dick pic? Are you jealous?**

**This conversation is over.**

**Ohhh I think I hit a sore spot! I mean, it's pretty obvious when you keep taking dick pics from the same angle, like you want to make it look bigger. But it's ok. I'm into small, cute little dicks.**

**OVER.**

Akira snickered to himself. The fact that he was still replying instead of just leaving his phone was the most incriminating evidence of all. He clearly wanted this conversation to keep going—he just couldn't bring himself to admit it. **Look, you can disprove my argument pretty easily, here. Just take a picture of your cock right now, and if you're totally flaccid, I'll know that all this small dick talk doesn't turn you on, and I'll stop right now~**

**I'm not taking any pictures.**

**Because you're hard right now? Or because you're ashamed of your embarrassingly small, four-inch dick?**

**I'm not hard right now.**

**Oh, I really don't believe you~ Hmm, right now I'm just thinking about pushing you down on my bed, grinding our cocks together slowly just to make the size difference as CLEAR as possible… Oh, you'd like that, wouldn't you? Is my dick intimidating to you? Are you worried your ass can't handle that much? Is that why you don't want to meet IRL?**

There was a bit of a pause before Akechi replied, a pause which Akira calculated was about as much time as you'd need to finish jerking yourself off, before the reply, **Fuck you,** came back to him.

He imagined the look Akechi would have on his face as he'd beat off to this—he'd be hating how much it turned him on, and yet too fucking horny to stop himself. Akira wanted to see the humiliation on his face, wanted to have him hard and helpless underneath him, wanted to see Akechi's body unable to deny it like he could over text.

_Agh, this guy is driving me crazy._ Akira came fast, before he even really had the time to enjoy it. Immediately, he pushed his pants down so he could take a picture of his cock while it was still hard, right from the same angle Akechi always went for, the one that made every dick look bigger, and sent the picture to Akechi. **I want you so fucking bad,** he added.

**Thank you for the picture,** was all Akechi said in reply, and it was so incongruous with the whole rest of their conversation, Akira had to laugh again.

x x x

It sounded like the movie was over, so once Akira was cleaned up and zipped up, he left his phone in the bedroom and popped out of his room to join Ryuji and his friends. The credits were rolling across the TV screen by that point.

“So how was the movie?” Akira leaned over the couch to ask.

“Awesome!”

“Decent.”

“Lame.”

Three very different impressions from Ryuji, Takamaki, and Mishima respectively.

“Whose word should I take, here?” Akira asked, and the three of them looked at each other.

Mishima laughed awkwardly. “I mean, I guess it wasn't that bad? The ending was just kind of a let-down.”

“Right?” Takamaki agreed. “I _loved_ the villain, but wow, her death scene was anticlimactic. Mixed feelings.”

“But the action was awesome, right?!” Ryuji was the only one super hyped about this movie. Akira couldn't help but smile at his enthusiasm.

“Yeah, it looked pretty cool. I saw a bit of it,” Akira said. “Thanks for the snacks.” He came around to the front of the couch and helped himself to a bit more, then squeezed himself in between Ryuji and Mishima, who made room for him.

“Thank Yuuki!” Ryuji pointed over at him. “He was the one who bought all this stuff. He's loaded now, apparently.”

“I'm not loaded!” Mishima waved his hands. “I just have a decent job now, so I can spend money on stuff and not worry about it. It's nice.”

“What are you doing now?” Akira asked. He seemed to recall Mishima was in trade school.

“Uh, I'm a plumber…” he said, as if he were embarrassed about it. “I do a lot of commercial buildings… toilets…water heating…sprinklers… Kinda lame, I know…”

“Hey, I'm unemployed,” said Akira. “I'm the last person to throw stones. Besides, it's a good job.”

“But like…” Mishima blushed. “I dunno, I'm sitting here with a model and a motorcycle racer. It's just lame, you know?”

“No way, no way!” Takamaki waved her hands. “Modeling is glamorous, yeah, but the money is surprisingly terrible, and it's all erratic. You never know when you're gonna get a gig. It's nothing like a stable job.”

“And I barely making anything racing,” Ryuji moaned. “Nobody at the track is rich, trust me. …Except whoever owns the track, probably…”

“Sounds like you're the most loaded guy in the room, Mishima,” Akira commented with a friendly prod. “A real sugar daddy.”

Mishima went bright red, laughing. “Aha-ha-ha…if you say so…”

Now that they'd buttered him up, Takamaki said, “Sooo, does sugar daddy wanna buy us some drinks from the convenience store?”

“Sure! Why not!”

Wow, Mishima was easy to manipulate. A little bit of flattery went a long way, apparently. Or maybe it was a pretty girl calling him “sugar daddy.”

They all got their shoes on to wander down to the convenience store and came back with drinks and snacks, and went back to the apartment to have a late dinner, sitting around the coffee table on the floor eating ready-made meals from from plastic containers with cheap beer. In an attempt to make conversation, Akira asked Takamaki about her work. “Surprisingly terrible money, I think you said?”

“Yeah, basically,” Takamaki said as she ripped open her plastic container of noodle salad. “It's an industry based on exploiting teenage girls who have no idea how much they're worth. Most of them are so infatuated with the idea of being models, they'll do it for next to nothing.”

“So why do you do it, then?” Akira asked.

“Exposure. Name recognition. If you can make a name for yourself, you can influence people. Fame is a currency like any other.”

“Wow, someone's gotten jaded,” Ryuji commented. “What happened to all that _oh I want to do my best and be the best model!_ ” He did an obnoxious impression of Takamaki that even Akira could tell was terrible.

“Shut up, Ryuji,” she said, but she was smiling at him. “I mean, I still like it. I like the clothes, I like the glamor, I like the people. But…” she sighed. “Nobody can stay starry-eyed forever.”

“I think I miss starry-eyed Ann,” Ryuji said as he took a chug of his beer.

“I miss starry-eyed Ann, too. You can thank Kamoshida for that.” Takamaki filled her frown with noodles instead of saying any more.

Akira knew about Kamoshida—he was the reason Ryuji had gone to juvie. After Takamaki's friend's suicide, Ryuji had confronted Kamoshida about it, and wound up breaking his nose—on top of his previous record, that had been enough to get him beyond expelled and charged with assault.

“You got him, though,” Ryuji pointed out. “You kept at it, and you got him.”

“ _I_ didn't get him,” Takamaki shot back. “Me and twenty-two other girls got him. That's how many it took. _Twenty-two girls_ reporting him over the span of six years! And they never had enough to prove the violence against the sports teams.” She took a drink of her Chu-Hai, and off to the side, Mishima's expression turned glum. “And there are about a million more Kamoshidas out there, getting away with it, too. And Shido's not helping anything, either. He's been rolling back anti-discrimination laws right and left. Ugh!” She slammed down her can. “Anyway, I do what I can with my platform. If I can get as famous as possible, people will listen harder to what I have to say, and maybe I can do some good in the world. End speech.” Akira gave her a polite little applause, and Takamaki smiled and posed as if this were a photo op.

“What sort of things do you do on a day-to-day basis? Besides going to shoots and things,” he asked her.

“Well, um, a lot of it's just self-promotion stuff…oh! There's this big art gallery event I'm going to this week, basically to shmooze. There's a lot of schmoozing, to be honest.”

“Art gallery event? …Wait, is that the one this Sunday at the Bayside Gallery?” Akira asked. “I was thinking of going to that one.”

“Yeah! The one with with Ichiryusai Madarame!” Takamaki said, stuffing her face with more noodle salad. “It's a big deal show! Everyone who's anyone'll be there so they can look important and cultured.”

“Is it a big deal?”

“Oh yeah, big big,” she said. Her table manners were surprisingly sloppy for someone with such an elegant media image. She was wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “I know lotsa famous people who'll be there.”

“Like who?”

“Umm….” she swallowed. “I mostly know about TV personalities… Mina Kiryuu, the singer, Eri Kirihara—she was in that new police drama I was talking about—and…oh! Goro Akechi, I think.”

Now she really had Akira's attention. He tried not to look obviously eager. “Goro Akechi?”

“Yeah, he almost always comes to events like this. I see him at everything,” she said. Suddenly, Akira was a lot more interested in this art show.

“You know,” Ryuji began, katsu sandwich bulging in his cheek, “Akira's actually been—”

Akira punched him in the leg under the table. “I've been looking for a job. So maybe you can hook me up, eh, Takamaki? Since this is such a big shmoozy event? Think I can model?” he said jokingly, striking a pose.

She laughed. “Call me Ann! Last names make me so uncomfortable. If you don't mind me calling you Akira?”

“Fine by me, Ann.”

“You might as well call this guy Yuuki, too,” Ryuuji jabbed a thumb at Mishima.

“Hey!” Mishima protested. “Ask me, first! …Though it's fine if you call me Yuuki.”

“Will do, then, Yuuki.” Akira smiled at him, and Yuuki seemed embarrassed about it for some reason.

Before the evening was done and Yuuki and Ann went home, Akira made sure to get both their phone numbers so they could hang out again. It was always good to have more contacts.

x x x

**Your advice has actually been really helpful,** Akira texted to Akechi the next morning as he lounged on the couch in front of the TV.

**What advice?** Akechi replied.

**You know, about doing a little bit each day. I've been going further and further from home every day, and it's not actually that bad.**

**That was actually helpful?**

**Yeah, I just had one blip when I went out kinda late and ended up in the train station at rush hour. That sucked.**

**Well, breathing helps that. It doesn't have to be super deep. But you just count to three and make sure each breath is the same length. Just keep doing that for as long as it takes.**

**I'll try that. Thanks.**

**Um, yeah…**

**I'm glad I have you to rely on for this stuff,** Akira replied. Futaba had said pretty much that to him, many times before.

**Um…it's nothing you can't just read in a book or online…**

**But it's more encouraging hearing it from another person.**

**I guess…**

**Accept my thanks, dammit!**

**Haha. You're welcome, then.**

x x x

Akira and Ryuji were at Futaba's place again, lounging on her bed as she made a status report on her findings.

“I'm about 99% sure our last shadow was assassinated,” Futaba declared from her throne (spinny chair), where she sat cross-legged. “And by a pro. Or pros. I have dubbed this group of assassins _The Crows._ ” She spread her palms in a dramatic gesture.

“Why crows?” Ryuji asked.

“Uhhhh because they're cool? They're black? It kinda sounds like the title of that Hitchcock movie?”

Ryuji rolled his eyes.

“Anyway!” Futaba continued. “Based on the stuff you told me from that reporter, Akira—” she nodded at him— “I did a little more digging. And I think your friend is right. This shit goes deep. _Deep_ deep.” She took a deep breath. “If we keep going, we might get in deep shit.”

“Aren't we already in deep shit?” Ryuji pointed out.

“I mean, yeah. But deep _er_ shit. I mean like. Possibly national-level conspiracy shit. Like. If I wanna find out who _really_ killed my mom…” She propped up her elbow on the arm of her chair and started nibbling at her thumbnail. “I think we need to find some new ways of getting information. It's not gonna just be on the internet, not even on the deep web. We have to get some real connections. Interrogate people.”

“Enhanced interrogation?” Akira asked, a touch of irony in his voice.

“I'm not saying _that,_ ” Futaba waved her hand, but Akira wasn't so sure about her denial. “I was just thinking like, blackmail.”

“Blackmail who? With what?”

“I dunno!” Futaba rubbed her head with both hands. “I'm getting really frustrated.”

“Have you figured anything out about who killed the shadow?” Ryuji asked.

Futaba perked up. “I did find something! Kinda. I really went delving into that security company. So you know how they were contracted to the company my mom worked for, Kurohara L. Pharma? Well—”

“Wait,” Akira cut her off. “Kurohara L. Pharma? That's the name of the place your mom worked?”

“Yeah. I thought I mentioned that before?” Futaba blinked.

“I think I've got the lead you're looking for,” Akira grinned, pulling out his phone.

 


	4. Leaning Hard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kaneshiro means “golden castle.”

 

“Wait, so what was that thing you said you said you found out about the guy who killed our shadow?” Akira asked Futaba, after he was done telling her about running into Tae Takemi.

“Oh! Yeah,” Futaba nodded. “It's kinda-sorta related? It's actually about the security company generally. So I was thinking about what your reporter friend said, about how a security company would see a lot of stuff? So then I thought, well, if you're a shady business, you need to have shady security on your side that'll shade off your shade, right?”

Akira nodded along. As usual, Futaba's choice of vocabulary was…unique.

“So! I was looking into their clients. And well, it's a big company, so it's a _big_ list. But I started looking. And some of their clients—they do businesses and private individuals—have had disappearances or suicides on their property. Honestly, you could call it coincidence, just 'cause it's such a big company, but like…they're a security company, so if there's weird stuff like this happening, it's sorta like they're not doing their job right, you know? Maybe deliberately.”

“So you're saying this company was hired to be shit security and let stuff happen?” Ryuji said.

“Basically, yeah. And I'm thinking if all these people hired the same security company…maybe they hired the same assassin, too.”

“It's possible,” Akira agreed.

“Right?!” Futaba pointed at him. “Man, maybe I should be a reporter. I'm so good at this.”

“I think being a reporter involves going outside and talking to people a lot,” Ryuji pointed out.

“Eugh…maybe not, then… Anyway! Everything else I've got is just like…bits and piece of stuff that isn't really enough to say anything. Some minor scandals. Leaked correspondences. Anonymous net posts from some company employees. It's all pretty fishy, though. And sometimes it's like they're using code or something…”

“Code?” Akira asked.

“Or I dunno, maybe it's not code, maybe it's a joke. I've seen a couple posts that mention _the devil_ and I'm like, whaaat? Maybe it's just a weird in-joke.”

The word _devil_ rolled around in Akira's head for a few moments and he almost thought it reminded him of something, but he quickly lost it. “Well, I'll talk to Takemi and see what she has to say,” he said. “She seemed pretty unhappy with the company. I don't think it'll be that hard to get her to talk.”

“You gonna seduce her into talking?” Ryuji said with a grin.

“I don't do that,” Akira smoothly denied.

Ryuji and Futaba both snorted.

But Akira wasn't fazed. “I don't seduce people into talking. I talk, and also coincidentally seduce at the same time. I can't help it that I'm so attractive.”

Ryuji immediately lifted his foot to stomp Akira in the head, but Akira leaned aside and dodged it without even turning to look.

“Begone, thot!” Futaba pointed a finger-gun at Akira and began shooting, and Akira's body jerked as the invisible bullets thudded into his chest and finally, he fell over. Futaba blew the smoke off her finger-gun, then holstered it.

“You can kill me, but you can't kill my mojo…” Akira moaned as he slowly died on the bed.

x x x

Akira was already at Leblanc when Takemi walked in. It seemed she was off that day, as rather than office attire, she was in a casual outfit that made her personal aesthetic rather more explicit. Akira waved at her, and she came to put down her bag at the booth with him before ordering a coffee and then joining him.

“This place is so nostalgic,” she sighed, a tinge of bitterness in her expression. “I missed this neighborhood.”

“Nothing's stopping you from having a coffee here, from time to time,” Akira pointed out.

“I know. But…I get too moody if I spend too much time here. I need to stop dwelling on the past. I'm not a doctor anymore.” Takemi sipped her black coffee.

“You're a researcher, now,” Akira said, hand on his usual mocha.

“Which would be fine, if I worked for anyone else.”

“Are you gonna keep throwing around hints about that, or are you actually gonna talk about it?” He pushed her.

“Oh, yes, well…” Takemi's look turned wry. “Your friend seemed pretty eager to hear about it. But…”

Elbows on the table, Akira folded his fingers together and placed his chin on them. “You don't feel comfortable talking to her?”

“To put it bluntly, no.” Takemi took another sip.

“Because she's a reporter? Or because she's a sleazebag?”

“Aren't those the same thing?” Takemi replied, deadpan, and Akira laughed.

“But if you're here,” he said, “can I take it you're willing to talk to me?”

“Maybe.” There was an almost-smile in her eyes. “If you make it worth my while.”

Akira raised an eyebrow. “I'm not rich enough to pay you anything. Unless you mean…” he paused dramatically, and gave her a sultry look, “paying with my body.”

Takemi didn't even blink. “Oh, I have enough test subjects.” Her expression was straight, but her eyes were smiling. “Part of the job.”

“You sure you don't want to do some other _research_ on me?” Akira said with a grin.

“Why so eager to be my guinea pig?” A smile quirked its way out of her lips. “But at any rate, what I'm looking for isn't money or sexual favors. What I want…” she leaned forward, lowering her voice, and if the look on her face hadn't been stark serious, he would have been positive she was hitting on him. “is to see something done. Reporting from one small outlet isn't enough. They have the power to smother that easily. I want _action._ If you can't offer that, then there's no point in me taking the risk. I need _you_ to take some risk, too.” She narrowed her eyes. “You told me in your text that this is about taking an ethical stand, about doing the right thing. How much are you willing to lay on the line in the name of doing the right thing, _Mr. Akira-no-surname?_ ”

Akira straightened his posture. “How much are _you_ willing to lay on the line?” he turned the question back on her.

“Why do you think I'm still at this job?” Her tone was near a hiss, eyes shifting around to make sure no one was listening. “Because I need a paycheque? No. I could get another position in some other lab. But I couldn't just walk away from it, knowing someone else would fill my position and do all the same things. I broke my Hippocratic oath a hundred times over so that I could get deeper into this operation and take it down from the inside. I want to see the whole. Thing. Come. Down. And I'm willing to do _whatever_ it takes for that to happen. Are you? Can you _actually_ help me?”

Akira was a little stunned. He hadn't imagined she was this serious. Had her little drunk show in the bar been deliberate—an attempt to sound him out, see if she could use him for this? How many people had she approached before, in similar or other ways?

But this was perfect. This was exactly the kind of ally he needed. He just had to show her how serious he was, too. And that required a small dose of truth. “I've broken the law in the name of justice before.”

“Really?” Takemi's tone was skeptical.

Akira carefully arranged the words so as to be as convincing as possible, while also saying nothing that could pin him down for anything. “Would you be willing to kill someone, if you believed society would benefit from their death?”

Takemi's eyes narrowed. “I don't deal in hypotheticals. My area of expertise is practical.”

“So is mine,” Akira replied, and he fired a finger-gun at her. “But don't tell Ohya.”

Takemi's eyes widened. “Are you serious?”

He just smiled at her.

x x x

After some discussion with Futaba, they decided it was best to get Takemi in on their private app—in a separate channel, so Takemi couldn't tell what other things they were talking about, of course. This would enable Takemi to talk to Futaba directly. Takemi already had an established relationship with Futaba, and that would help with trust. And they wanted Takemi to be able to update them on any new information immediately. And since Futaba was their mastermind, Akira figured it was best that she be the one to decide just how much they would reveal to Takemi.

They were holding back with Takemi on a lot of things, but Akira was certain she was still holding back with them, too. It wasn't like she fully trusted them. Which was only natural.

Before they left the cafe, Akira paid for their drinks (well, he put them on Futaba's tab) and thanked Takemi for coming.

“Oh, it was my pleasure,” she said, giving him a genuine smile. “You're so easy to talk to, it's strange. I feel like I could tell you all sorts of things.”

Akira smiled back at her as they walked out of Leblanc. “I'm charming, I know.”

“…I take that back. You're insufferable,” she said dryly.

x x x

 **Are you sure this app is secure?** Takemi's message came over Futaba's app.

 **Very,** Futaba replied immediately. **I spent a lot of time making sure of that.**

 **Oracle is a techno-god,** Ryuji added. **She's got it under control.**

**So you all use code names? That's…cute.**

**Yeah, well, we gotta protect our identities,** said Futaba.They had not informed Takemi that “Oracle” was also her former patient Futaba. Akira was the only one of them who had been face-to-face with Takemi, and she didn't even know his family name. Takemi was by far the most exposed of all of them, and she was probably quite aware of it.

 **I'll admit, that's smart, if a little silly,** Takemi said. **Aha, I suppose I can't throw stones. The company does something similar, after all.**

 **What do you mean?** Akira asked.

**Oh, you didn't know? It's not a big secret or anything—but I suppose it's the sort of inside joke only company employees would know about. So “Kurohara”—the name of the founder—is written as “black field,” but on our logo, the company name is in the Roman alphabet. So** _**hara** _ **you could write as the English** _**belly** _ **instead, and call the company “black belly L.” Black Belial. I wasn't joking when I said I worked for the literal devil.**

**OMG,** Futaba typed immediately, and then she vanished from the chat.

x x x

Takemi wasn't going to tell them everything off the bat. She had conditions before she was willing to give them everything she asked for. This was an agreement, a contract—she wasn't giving information away for free.

What she did tell them was that Futaba's mother hadn't been the only researcher to be bumped off, and anyone who worked there long enough knew that if they didn't tow the company line, it would be more than just their job in danger. Obviously, this applied to herself, as well. She was taking an incredible risk just to tell them this much.

She explained the sort of research the company engaged in only in the broadest strokes: that they were in extreme violation of any standard of ethics, and that their research was a threat to public safety.

And finally, she told them that the company research was funded through various unsavory sources, including organized crime.

 **The company spent a long time in research stages without making much profit at all,** she told them in the chat. **So they needed to acquire funding from somewhere. I can't account for every cent, but I'm positive one of their largest backers is the leader of an organized crime syndicate named Junya Kaneshiro.**

 **I think I've heard that name before,** Futaba typed.

 **That's no surprise. He's incredibly notorious,** Takemi replied. **You can look into him yourself. I want you to deal with him, and ensure that the syndicate breaks down in his absence. I don't want some second-in-command immediately taking over and continuing business as usual. If you do that, then I will tell you all I know.**

Ryuji sent Futaba and Akira a message in their private chat. **Did she just say she wants us to off a mafia boss?! For real?!**

 **I mean, it's not unreasonable…** Futaba replied.

**A hit on a mafia boss sounds pretty unreasonable! A guy like that is gonna have crazy security, don't you think?!**

**Oh yeah, crazy security,** Futaba agreed. **I meant more like, it's not morally unreasonable.**

 **True,** Akira typed, then he went back to the chat with Takemi. **Why not tell us everything now? You're not just holding out on us to protect yourself, are you? I mean, you've already told us enough to put your own life in danger.**

 **This is bigger than you imagine,** Takemi replied. **I'm giving you Kaneshiro as a starting point. If you can't handle him, then you're better off not knowing the rest.**

x x x

Akira came over to Futaba's place the day before the art show for their last venture out together. For once, she was out of bed by the time he got there, clacking away on her computer when Akira knocked on her door.

“You may enter my domain,” she said through the door, and Akira stepped in without too much eye-rolling.

“What're you doing?” He asked, taking a peek at her screen.

“Mostly, I've been trying to back up what Takemi said about Kaneshiro,” she said, turning around in her chair. “I was actually already suspicious of him, once she told us about that black Belial thing. Those leaked documents I talked to you about mentioned _the devil enriched by the golden castle._ ” She snorted. “Someone was trying to be lowkey about their leaks, I guess. But if what she said about them knocking off researchers is right, I guess I can't blame them…”

Akira grabbed the back of her rolley chair and rattled it a bit. “No more research. We're going out. All the way to the gallery today, remember?”

“Just one more thing…”

Akira yanked her chair back from her desk, and Futaba shrieked like a baby whose umbilical cord had just been cut. “Come on! You don't wanna get stuck during rush hour again, do you?”

“Just let me check one more thing!” Futaba flailed her limbs, but made no move to actually get up out of her chair.

“And one thing turns into two things, and two things turns into three things, right? Come _on_ and let's gooo!” He spun her chair around so it was facing away from the computer. “I'm turning off your computer…”

“Don't you dare touch my baby!” Futaba scrambled out of her chair and rushed to protect the power button from Akira's menacing fingers.

“I promise I'll shut it down properly if you get dressed,” Akira conceded, and Futaba groaned and went to her closet.

After some bullying and wheedling, they were finally out the door, meandering to the train station. Akira enjoyed hanging out with Futaba, but in many ways, dealing with her was more like babysitting than hanging out, and doing this every day for the past month was getting a little exhausting. He would frankly be glad when it was done. But regardless of how he felt, Akira would play the dutiful big brother character until the end. Or maybe things would work out with this Blue Fox guy and he could be her new safety object. But Akira sort of doubted it. He'd known Futaba too long to really believe she would change much.

She did make it all the way to the gallery, though, which Akira had to admit was progress. So he held his hands out for a high-five, and Futaba hopped up to smack them. “Woo! We did it!”

“ _You_ did it,” Akira pointed out.

“Couldn't have done it without you,” Futaba said, and Akira didn't agree out loud, but he knew she was right.

x x x

The way back, however, didn't go as well as the way there. The train ended up filled up by what seemed to be a high school group on a school outing, accompanied by a couple of teachers. They were as loud as you'd expect high school kids to be, chattering to each other about the sort of thing teenagers cared about—grades, crushes, teachers, their parents.

Akira and Futaba were smushed into the side of the train, Futaba protected within the circle of Akira's arms as he leaned against the barrier by the door, holding onto the pole behind her. He could see from the look in Futaba's eyes that her mind was already stopped in place and about ready start screaming to itself.

“You're not in school anymore,” Akira said to her. “They're just kids. They see you as an adult.”

“I don't feel like an adult.” Her eyes were squeezed shut.

“You're in control of your life, now. That's what being an adult is. These kids can't hurt you.” Akira was caught between the (unproductive) desire to berate her for her immaturity and the (possibly equally unproductive) desire to comfort and console her. There was no right thing to say. One option would just hurt her and drive her away, and the other would just make her even more dependent on him. So he wavered somewhere in the lukewarm halfway point between the two extremes.

Some days, he just wanted ditch her somewhere and let her have a panic attack on her own. Let her deal with it. He had yet to give in to that urge, and probably never would.

But he kept all of this behind his teeth, as usual, and instead told her, “Just breathe.” And he counted for her, three counts in, three counts out. And they continued like that until the high school class filtered off the train and it was mostly empty again, and Futaba calmed down.

x x x

 **Your advice really helped,** Akira texted Akechi after, when he was at home.

 **What advice?** The way he reacted just exactly the same way as the last time was damn cute.

**About breathing. Before, I always tried to breathe like suuuper deep and I just got more and more upset over how I wasn't doing it right. This worked better.**

**Oh, that. Well, like I said, it's nothing you can't just read out of a book.**

**And like *I* said, it feels better to hear it from a person instead of a book. I kinda feel like I can rely on you.**

**Actually…?**

**Actually. I don't feel like there's anyone else in my life I can count on,** Akira typed, then stopped, paused, and erased it before he could send it. He was supposed to be Futaba. He was playing Futaba.

But Futaba would say something like that, wouldn't she? It was Akira who couldn't say that. Futaba said _I need you_ like she breathed air. Akira didn't need. Akira was needed. He wanted it like that.

But he was playing Futaba.

 **Actually. You're the only person in my life I feel like I can count on,** he typed again.

It wasn't like he meant it. Akechi didn't reply, anyway.

x x x

It was the day of the art show, and Akira was feeling like a girl on her first date. Not like this was a date—it was far less than a date. It was coincidentally getting to see this stranger who'd been constantly rejecting meeting in person. More like stalking than a date.

Whatever, close enough. Akira put on the tightest jeans he owned, a black fishnet shirt, and the sort of jacket that said, _yeah, I think I'm hot shit._ Plus just a tad of guyliner.

Ryuji's reaction was: “What the fuck are you wearing, man?”

“You don't think it's hot?” Akira turned around, showing off.

“It _is_ hot! That's the issue! Do you think we're going to the club, or what?!” Ryuji, by contrast, was wearing the most respectable outfit he owned. Which was to say, a dress shirt (untucked) and some decent slacks with shoes that weren't runners.

Akira shrugged. “It's not like there's an official dress code in art galleries.”

“Do you…have any shame? At all?” Ryuji's face was buried in his palm.

“Nope,” Akira grinned, getting his shoes on. “Are we going, or what?”

“Agh, we're going, we're going…”

x x x

Since they were going to pick up Futaba, they took the train rather than Ryuji's bike, going over to Yongen-Jaya first.

Futaba's reaction to Akira's outfit was a little more astute than Ryuji's. “Dressing to seduce, huh?” She'd been informed that Akechi would be at the gallery.

“I won't deny it,” Akira said.

“Honestly, I expected worse.”

“I wouldn't wear drag on a first date.”

“Thank God,” Ryuji muttered.

“Oh,” Akira turned around when they were at the door, figuring he should say this before they got to the gallery. “Don't let Akechi know that I'm the one he's been texting, okay?”

“Huh?” Ryuji stopped in the middle of putting on his shoes. “Wouldn't he recognize you? You've been sending him pictures practically every day for the past month.”

“Not of my face.”

“Why not?!”

Akira opened his mouth, but it took him a while to formulate an answer he'd be willing to tell them. “Well, he doesn't, either. Protecting himself, as a celebrity, I suppose.”

“Still, it's kinda weird…”

“You don't know what Blue Fox looks like, either, though, right, Futaba?” Akira turned the conversation away from himself as they headed out the door and started walking toward the station. It was early in the day, but the clouds were making it dark, and it was fairly nippy. It was finally winter.

“Oh! Now that you mention it, I guess I don't,” Futaba said, a thoughtful hand on her chin. “I guess it just never really came up.”

“How can you lust after a guy whose face you've never even seen?” Ryuji asked, incredulous.

“ _The power of imagination~_ ” Futaba said, spreading her arms wide. Then, with a bit of a blush on her cheeks, she gave a more serious answer. “If you like someone as a person, the other stuff matters less. I could get into about anything.”

“And don't we know it,” Akira said with a grin.

“He could be a total swamp monster, though!” Ryuji poked her with an elbow.

“Statistically speaking, he probably looks average,” said Futaba. “I'm fine with average. S'not like I'm a supermodel, anyway.”

As Futaba and Ryuji chattered on, Akira's mind drifted off. He'd already gone through a hundred scenarios in his head the night before. When was the last time he'd been so worked up about a date? A non-date. This wasn't a date. But when was the last time he'd been on _any_ date? A real date, a date that he was invested in, a date that he actually meant to go somewhere rather than being just a brief entertainment, an excuse to get out of the house and talk to someone, to get someone to talk to him, to play the verbal games of _maybe-I'm-interested_ and sometimes, when he the fancy struck him, to get laid.

There were a dozen other people he could be pursuing right now, all of whom were more emotionally and more literally physically available, and Akira was busy getting himself worked up over this?

The thoughts that he hadn't allowed himself to think when he was getting dressed to go suddenly started battering at his head. What the fuck was he doing? What the _actual_ fuck was he doing?

It was too late now. He was out the door and he was dressed and he was going to go seduce motherfucking Goro Akechi or die trying.

x x x

They made it to the art gallery without a hitch. There was a fair crowd there, but it was fortunately a quiet and calm environment, the sort of place where Futaba was likely to feel at ease, so Akira wouldn't have to spend the whole time hovering over her and watching her out of the corner of his eye.

Or so he thought. A few steps inside the door, and Futaba immediately turned around and started heading out again.

“Whoa whoa whoa!” Akira grabbed her by the back of her collar, and she made a _gerk_ sound as he yanked her to a halt. “What do you think you're doing?”

“What does it look like?” Futaba's head turned around, and her expression was stiff and she was clearly sweating. “I'm leaving. We came to the gallery, we're here, we did it, let's go.”

Akira did not let go of her collar. “You're not gonna flake out now that we've come all this way. Come on. What are you so scared of?”

“Utter rejection? Public humiliation?” Futaba supplied helpfully. “Oh my God, what am I even wearing? Sweatpants! I look like a NEET. I'm a disaster. I think I'd rather just go home.”

“That's not gonna happen,” Ryuji shook his head. “Haven't you been chatting to this guy for a while now?”

“He's never met me IRL. It's not the same.”

“He's not going to publicly humiliate you,” said Akira. “We both know he's a nice guy. And you look fine. Come on. Let's get going.” Akira pulled her backward by her collar, half-dragging her into the gallery.

“When I die of shame, you're paying for my tombstone!” Futaba whimpered, but gave in, understanding the futility of struggle, and after paying for their entrance, they were in the gallery proper.

At this point, Futaba pulled out her phone, and after some wincing and hesitation and some motivating jabs in the rib from Akira, made a text—to Blue Fox, probably—and they all started wandering around the gallery slowly. It was a pretty large space, and it seemed they'd wander a bit before they could find this mystery man of Futaba's.

As Akira's eye wandered around the place, his eye was drawn to the figure of an older man in a yukata—well, you didn't see many people walking around downtown Tokyo in yukata, after all. He seemed to be an important figure, surrounded by various suit-wearing important-looking people as they had some sort of surely-important conversation. A young man of about their age in black pants and a casual, loose-fitting shirt was hovering behind him, looking visibly uncomfortable and occasionally glancing at his phone.

Then said young man looked toward them, and Futaba gave a shy, hesitant little wave. He blinked, smiled, quietly slipped away from the crowd and came toward them. Out of the corner of his eye, Akira could see Futaba sweating bullets as she wore an expression of sheer determination. Well, at least she wasn't fleeing in the opposite direction.

“Necronomicon?” He said to Futaba, looking a little surprised.

“Th-that's me!” Futaba's hand shot up awkwardly as if she were answering a question in class. “Guys, this is Blue Fox! Blue Fox, these are my friends Akira and Ryuji.” Blue Fox bowed politely to the both of them, and Akira and Ryuji followed suit.

“I think he probably has a real name,” Akira pointed out.

“Oh! I never told you that, did I?” Blue Fox said, as if it had simply never occurred to him to mention his real name in all the time he'd been chatting online with Futaba. “My name is Yusuke Kitagawa. I'm very pleased to meed your acquaintance.”

Immediately, Futaba's face turned a prominent shade of purple.

“Ohh, you're the guy from the magazine!” Ryuji said, hitting a fist lightly into his palm. “You did that painting Futaba called—”

“Van Gogh and Jackson Pollock making sweet love on a pillowy canvas,” Akira smoothly interrupted.

“Y-yeah…that…” Ryuji stuttered, then shut up.

“An interesting interpretation,” Kitagawa said thoughtfully. “But eroticism wasn't really my intention.”

Ryuji snorted. “Yeah, well, with Futaba—”

Futaba's hand reached out to smack over Ryuji's mouth as she gave the most forced laugh known to man. “Aha-ha-ha-ha! Oh, Ryuji! You're so funny.” Then she pulled her hand away, stiff smile still on her face. “Um, so, anyway, um, well! You're tall! And better-looking than I expected! And tall!” she blurted, then after a full five seconds of silence, seemed to realize what she'd just said and slowly turned around. “Um, so, I have to go now…to the bathroom. Yeah. The bathroom. See you.” And then before Akira could stop her, she scampered around the corner—in the opposite direction from the bathroom.

“Agh…” Ryuji sighed, smacking his hand to his face.

“Did I…say something?” Kitagawa was standing there looking rather stunned, staring in the direction Futaba had disappeared.

Akira shook his head. “Futaba just gets nervous with people she doesn't know. She wants to talk to you, trust me.”

“Futaba? Ah, so that's her real name.” Kitagawa smiled. “She seems so outgoing online, though.”

“Yeah, I know,” Akira nodded. “How much has she told you about herself?”

“Not much, to be honest. I've been very curious.” Kitagawa shifted his stance, looking a little nervous, eyes glancing over to where Futaba had gone.

“You should go after her,” Akira jerked his head toward Futaba. “She'll probably try to run, but just keep at it. You just gotta be stubborn.”

“All right…I will, then.” Kitagawa nodded to the two of them. “It was good to meet you,” he said, then headed off after Futaba.

“You think that's gonna work out?” Ryuji said after Kitagawa had left, scratching his head.

“Maybe? I dunno,” Akira answered honestly. “Anyway, let's let them handle their stuff and wander around a bit.”

“I know you just wanna look for Akechi,” Ryuji smirked.

“We can look at art _while_ I look for Akechi,” Akira said, and Ryuji rolled his eyes, but followed him around as they strolled through the gallery.

It wasn't long before they ran into Ann, dressed to the nines in something that Akira was sure was the cutting edge of fashion, flitting about like a social butterfly, chatting and smiling all over the place as she handed out business cards and bowed with more smiles and chatter.

“Whoa, she's pro at this,” Ryuji said, impressed.

Ann immediately spotted the two of them, gave them a big wave and came over to say hi. “Guys! You made it!” She beamed at them. “Told you it's a big schmoozy event.” She leaned in to whisper at them. “I even saw Haru Okumura here! You know, CEO of Okumura Foods?”

Haru Okumura—daughter of Kunikazu Okumura—had inherited the company after her father's dramatic death. The company had immediately been buried in scandals and internal conflict, and the media at the time had alternately painted her as the pitiful, helpless daughter of a conman and a foolish incompetent who was bound to bring the company to bankruptcy. There had been a lot of pressure for her to hand over management to someone else—but she hadn't. And somehow, she'd weathered the storm, leading the company back from the brink of collapse. These days, she featured mostly on lists of things like, “Top Ten Cutest Single Rich Girls!”

After a brief chat with them, Ann bounced away with a wave. “Gotta mingle, you know? But let's hang out soon!”

They continued to wander, and Akira's eyes were darting around the whole time, always on the lookout for a head of brown hair. He twitched a couple times, thinking he'd seen it, only to realize it was someone else.

Then Ryuji tapped his shoulder. Akira turned around—and there he was. Goro Akechi. He was wearing an expensive-looking tan suit and his trademark black gloves, his posture deliberately casual as he chatted with some rich-looking older woman. Akira stared while trying not to make it look like he was staring. How the hell could a grown man be so _pretty_ and get away with it? It was the hair. Blame the hair. It was too long. What would it feel like? Akira wanted to bury his face in it and huff it.

“I'll…go wander around,” Ryuji excused himself, strolling off in the opposite direction.

Akira waited for the moment their conversation ended, right when Akechi was turning away from the woman, presumably to go find someone else to schmooze with, and struck. Strolling over toward Akechi at a speed calculated to be casual and unconcerned, he said, “What do you see in it?”

Turning toward him, Akechi blinked. “Pardon me?”

“This painting here,” Akira indicated the painting they stood in front of. It was fairly abstract, evoking a sort of tunnel-like feeling, with a figure standing far in the distance, near the smallest speck of light. “It looked like you were talking about it.” Akira didn't know jack about art on canvases, but he was highly informed in the art of bullshitting, so he was confident he could say just about anything about this piece and sound intelligent and informed.

“Oh!” Akechi folded his arms thoughtfully. “Hopelessness, I suppose. Being lost in an endless, dark tunnel. Though I'm sure that's a fairly conventional interpretation.”

“Isn't there a light at the end of the tunnel, though?” Akira pointed out. “And there's someone standing there.”

“That's precisely what makes it so hopeless, though,” Akechi said with an incongruent smile. “If it were nothing but darkness, that would seem normal to you. You wouldn't know anything else. It's the contrast of the light—the hope—in the distance, the person there beckoning you, that makes you aware of your position in the abyss.” Then he gave a short laugh. “Aha. Well, I can only speculate as to what the artist was thinking. I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name?”

“You're not going to introduce yourself before you ask my name?” Akira said with an almost-smirk.

“Well…I assumed you knew who I am,” Akechi said, but Akira replied with a blank look. “You do…know who I am, right?”

Akira just blinked at him. “Sorry?”

Akechi's face twitched, just a moment. It almost looked as if he was irritated—but then the look was gone. “Oh, you must not be much of a reader, then. I'm sorry for assuming. I'm Goro Akechi.”

“Oh, I read plenty,” Akira said, smirk widening a millimeter. “I'm fairly selective in my tastes, though. But your name does sound familiar…? So you're a writer? Did you write…science fiction?”

Akechi's face twitched in a definite look of irritation, this time. “Mystery, actually. And your name was…?”

“Akira.” Akira held his hand out for a shake and a shallow bow. “What brings you here, then, Akechi?”

“Oh, well, the same thing that brings everyone here, I suppose,” Akechi replied with a smooth smile. “The art, the people. I try to come out to social events as much as possible.”

“Are you a social person, then?”

“Oh…in a way, yes, I might say so. How about yourself? Do you often come to galleries?”

“Oh, often enough.” If Akechi was going to lie about being a social butterfly, then Akira was going to lie through his teeth about being an art-lover. “A friend of mine is an artist here, actually. That's why I came today.” Close enough to the truth. He'd probably end up being friends with the guy, anyway, if everything went well.

“Oh, really? So you have an appreciation for art?”

“I have an appreciation for _all_ kinds of beauty,” Akira said with a smile.

Akechi smiled right back at him, expression unreadable. “Aha-ha, well, beauty can be found in all sorts of places, can't it? Or so they say.”

“Definitely,” Akira agreed. “There's quite a lot of it right here.”

“Well, that's what art galleries are for, after all.”

“Oh, I'm not talking about what's on the walls.”

“I suppose the architecture of the building is also rather…” Akechi trailed off as he finally clued in to the look Akira was giving him. “…rather…nice,” he finished lamely, red travelling up his neck. He folded his arms protectively in front of himself.

Akira inched just a half a step closer to him—not quite in his space, just touching the edge of his boundaries. “Are you into…architecture?” he said, his tone making it quite clear he was not at all talking about architecture.

“Um…well…” Akechi was swiftly getting redder and redder, and the way he was getting so flustered just spurred Akira on further. Who would have known he was this cute in real life? Akira was feeling positively giddy.

“Not used to conversations about…architecture?” Akira said with a grin that was halfway to a leer.

“Do _you_ usually approach strangers at art galleries to talk about _architecture?_ ” Akechi replied, and his voice was the picture of calm control, but he couldn't hide his red face.

“Not usually,” Akira admitted. “The moment I saw you, I just found it hard to resist.” He sidled in a little closer to Akechi, casually unzipping his jacket partway so Akechi could see the ridiculously slutty mesh shirt he was wearing underneath, watching Akechi's eyes widen as he stared at the exposed skin. Akechi's eyes flicked down, then up again, and Akira's smile split wider. He could tell when he was being checked out.

“If you want to continue this _conversation,_ ” Akira said, lowering his voice, “Then come to the mens' room.” He took a step toward Akechi to stand beside him, leaning in to whisper in his ear, “ _and we'll have a long, hard conversation about architecture._ ” Then he strode away, sure without even looking that Akechi was turning around to look at his ass.

x x x

Akira leaned against the sink in the mens' washroom, staring at the door of an empty stall. He was confident he'd hooked Akechi. This guy was clearly desperate for cock and also admitted to only ever fucking strangers. This was just the sort of shit a guy like that would go for. Still, Akira's heart was pounding in his throat. He'd never pulled anything this balls-to-the-wall daring before. Goro Akechi was making him pull crazy shit, and Akira wasn't really upset about that, somehow.

The mens' room was thankfully empty, and quite clean in the way that bathrooms in expensive venues were. It wasn't unpleasant, being in there.

Akira didn't have to wait long before Akechi walked in, his blush mostly faded, now replaced by a look of unconcealed lust as he pushed through the bathroom door and walked toward Akira, only slight hesitation in his steps.

“If you tell anyone about this,” Akechi said, his voice pitched low and the look in his eyes sharp, “I'll find you, and I'll make your life a living hell.” His arms were folded in front of him.

Akira was briefly startled by venom of his threat. But it wasn't incongruous with what he knew of Goro Akechi, which to be honest, wasn't much. He was someone who hid things—that much he could tell—and Akira couldn't even begin to know what else about himself he might be hiding. “Don't worry,” Akira said with a smile, friendly, easy. “That's not what I get off on.” And he grabbed Akechi's arm, yanking it out of its folded position to drag him into the stall at the back of the washroom.

 


	5. A Pain That I'm Used To

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm garbage at titles, so let's start going with Depeche Mode song names... (good song)

 

Akira grabbed Akechi's arm, yanking it out of its folded position to drag him into the stall at the back of the washroom. Once the door was closed and bolted, he immediately pushed Akechi's shoulders against the door and claimed his mouth.

Akechi's response was hungry, demanding—he grabbed Akira by the lapels of his jacket and yanked him close, then unzipped the jacket all the way so he could pull up his shirt and touch the skin underneath, running his hands up Akira's chest. For just a second, Akira thought he felt Akechi's hands tremble, but then their grip on Akira's sides tightened. All the while, their lips never came apart, as Akechi's tongue sought out contact and found it in Akira's mouth.

Akira's hands were busy, too, opening Akechi's blazer, yanking out his dress shirt, unbuttoning it so he could feel Akechi's chest, touch the skin that had been tantalizing him on from the other side of his cell phone screen all month. Force of habit always kept Akira's hands steady, no matter what was going on in his mind—when they slid over Akechi's heart, he felt it racing against his palms.

Akira pressed their bodies together and shifted his mouth from Akechi's lips to run down his jaw and neck, his hands memorizing every single inch of Akechi's torso. He wouldn't let himself forget any of it.

“Is stranger sex a thing for you?” Akira muttered against Akechi's neck as he rolled Akechi's nipples under his thumbs. He already knew the answer, but he wanted to see what Akechi would say to his face, as opposed to over text.

“It's…really none of your business.” Akechi's reply was breathy, and when Akira slid a leg between his, pressing their crotches together, he found Akechi was already hard.

“Isn't it?” Akira smiled against his skin, rolling his hips as he spoke. “I'm a stranger having sex with you. This is the only thing that _is_ my business.”

“Your business…” Akechi visibly shuddered, clinging to Akira's jacket. “Is to fuck me.”

“I won't argue with that.” Akira pulled back to undo his belt, pull down his fly and bring out his hardening cock. “So suck me off.”

Akechi dropped to his knees without question, immediately taking Akira in his mouth, all the way to the back of his throat, grabbing at the waist of Akira's jeans for support. Akira took him by his hair, gently, and watched the head that eagerly bobbed on his cock, saliva dribbling from the corners of his mouth as he closed his eyes and focused on the motions.

This was clearly a guy who was in love with giving head. The sight of him was heady, intoxicating, and Akira knew he couldn't handle too much. Before long, he pushed Akechi off. A threat of saliva stretched from the tip of his cock to Akechi's tongue. Akechi's face was flushed, his mouth open and yearning to be filled again.

“You're gonna make me come if you keep going like that,” Akira said, and Akechi's face broke into a smug smile. Akira pulled him up and went for Akechi's belt, undoing his pants to pull them down over his ass and turn him around so Akechi was facing the stall door. He pressed his own hard cock against the crevice of Akechi's ass as he reached around to grab Akechi's dick and squeeze it. _Definitely on the small side,_ Akira thought to himself with a mental chuckle. Akechi gasped.

“Tell me how bad you want it,” Akira whispered in his ear.

“Just fucking do it,” Akechi replied, voice tight.

Akira slid his saliva-wet cock along Akechi's ass crack, rocking his hips up and down as he slowly, _slowly_ jerked Akechi's cock. “Tell me how bad you want it,” he repeated. “How can I know what you want if you won't tell me?”

Akechi pushed his dick into Akira's hand, but Akira drew his hand away, teasing. “Beg me for it,” Akira whispered. And he grabbed Akechi's chin with one hand and turned it to the side so he could see his face. He would have liked to fuck him from the front so he could watch his expression the whole time, but bathroom sex wasn't really conductive to that. So he would have to take what he could get.

Akechi's eyes were closed shut, avoiding eye contact. His mouth was open, his expression one of need. “Fuck me,” he said finally. “Please fuck me.” His voice had lost the calm composure that Akechi so clearly liked to keep between himself and the world.

Akira smiled against his ear. “You'll even take a raw cock with no lube or prep? Man, you really are desperate.” Akechi scowled in response, but he didn't deny it.

Akira, however, pulled a lubricated condom out of his jeans pocket. “Lucky for you, I'm the kind of guy who's always prepared.” He ripped open the packet with his teeth, dropping the paper on the ground, rolled the condom over his dick, and pressed the tip of his cock against Akechi's asshole, pushing in just a bit, enjoying Akechi's gasp, the way his gloved fingers pressed against the stall door and his head dropped a little as Akira so gently prodded at his entrance, stretching him, but never quite getting the full head in.

“Tell me how bad you want it,” Akira said for a third time, one hand on Akechi's hip, the other holding his own dick steady. “Tell me how much you want my cock.”

Akechi's fingers splayed on the stall door were tense, his long hair hanging over his face as his head drooped, his forehead supported on the door. Akira couldn't see his expression. “I need your cock inside me,” he said finally, and it sounded as if he were practically speaking through clenched teeth. “I want it more than anything.”

“That's what I wanted to hear,” Akira said, and he slowly slid all the way in until his hips were pressed right up against Akechi's ass. He kneaded Akechi's cheeks in his hands as he gave a few small thrusts, staying deep inside, wanting to feel close. “Fuck, you have a great ass.” With each motion, he pulled out a little further, sped up a little more, until he was drawing himself almost all the way out to slam back in again, skin slapping against skin, holding him up at the hips as Akechi's legs trembled, struggling to keep him up. Akechi's hands scrabbled at the door for a handhold, and he grabbed the coat hook above his head and held on tight with both hands, letting out little moan-gasps with each thrust as he focused everything on staying on his feet.

“You wanted this _so_ bad, didn't you?” Akira said, glad that the condom was dulling the sensation for him. The sight of Akechi like this would have made him come way too fast, otherwise.

“Yes,” Akechi breathed, his voice nearly a whimper. “I need it. I need it. Give me your cock, please…”

Akira slapped Akechi's ass with a hand, and the sound of it rang loud through the whole bathroom. Akechi cried out, and Akira slapped him again, and again, drawing noise from Akechi each time. “That's pretty loud, isn't it?” Akira said as he continued to rail Akechi's ass. “I wonder if they could hear that outside.”

“Hnnn…” Akechi just made an unintelligible sound, his fingers curling tighter around the coat hook on the door.

Akira changed his angle a bit, pounding Akechi harder, and Akechi cried out again, louder than before, moaning a ragged noise on every thrust.

“Do you not care if they hear outside?” Akira asked him. “Or is it that you can't even stop yourself?”

Before Akechi had the chance to respond—if he was even capable at this point—Akira heard the sound of the door to the bathroom opening, and he reacted immediately, his hips freezing as one hand whipped over to press firmly over Akechi's mouth. Akechi didn't resist, and Akira could feel his shallow, rapid breaths against his hand.

They heard the steps of someone walking in across the bathroom, and then a clink and a rustle. It seemed he was using the urinal.

Slowly, silently, Akira resumed moving in and out of Akechi. With the hand that covered Akechi's mouth, he turned Akechi's head sideways so he could see his face. He needed to see Akechi's expression, see what Akechi had kept hidden from him all this time. Akechi's eyes were still squeezed shut, refusing contact.

His other hand on Akechi's hip, he could feel Akechi trembling. Akira fucked him slowly, and Akechi arched back into his cock, pushing into it hungrily, even knowing there was someone on the other side of the door. Akira continued slowly, tortuously, until the footsteps walked out the way they'd come and the door to the bathroom was closed again.

Still fucking Akechi slow, Akira leaned in to whisper in his ear. “Do you think he noticed? I mean, there are two pairs of legs in here. And you were still panting pretty hard. You can't stay quiet, can you?” He shoved forcefully into Akechi's ass, sinking deep, and Akechi made a smothered groan into Akira's hand. Akira dipped his fingers into Akechi's mouth, and Akechi sucked at them eagerly, running his tongue along each one.

Another sharp plunge in, and Akechi mewled around Akira's fingers.

“But would you like that?” Akira continued. “Maybe you want an audience, huh? You want attention? That's why you make so much noise. You just want the whole world to see how much you love my cock.” On that last word, he pulled his fingers out of Akechi's mouth and went back to fucking him hard again, making Akechi moan in time with the slaps of Akira's hips against his ass.

Akira shifted their positions again, moving in to press up against Akechi's back, grinding into him deep and close. He wrapped his arms around Akechi's torso, feeling his warmth as he whispered in his ear. “You're not gonna jerk yourself off?” He murmured. “Too busy holding yourself up? Need me to do it for you?”

Akechi's only response was to whimper in his grip. He was too far gone. He couldn't speak words. His insides were clenched tight around Akira's cock, and the support of Akira's arms around his stomach was the only thing even keeping him on his feet anymore.

Akira's lips curved in a grin against Akechi's ear. “Too bad your tiny little dick isn't worth jerking.”

Akechi gasped and bucked against him, clenching in spasms around Akira's cock as Akira continued to fuck him, burying his face in Akechi's hair. Akechi's come splattered against the door of the stall as he shook against Akira's chest.

“Shit,” Akira muttered against his ear, picking up his pace as he felt his own orgasm approaching. With one final thrust, his hips pressed against the warm cushion of Akechi's ass, he came, his face dropping over Akechi's shoulder, his arms hugging Akechi painfully close.

Akira stood there for a while, still practically holding Akechi up as they caught their breaths. Akira didn't want to ever let go, and it seemed it would be a while before Akechi was capable of breaking away, too.

“How was that?” Akira murmured against Akechi's shoulder.

“Ah…aha-ha…” Akechi only answered with something between a sigh and a weak laugh. Akira decided to interpret that as, _oh, my god, you just fucked my brains out and I can't think._

Akira nuzzled his face against Akechi's neck and squeezed him in his arms. He was going to take full advantage of these few moments when Akechi was too dazed to push him away. “You're so fucking sexy. I could come from just your voice.” He brought a hand up to turn Akechi's jaw, bringing him into a kiss, and Akechi's response was warm, pliant. It felt so good, Akira was scared to let go, scared to end this. He knew if he did, he wasn't going to get it again.

But he would rather be the one to push away Akechi than have it be the other way around. Eventually, he released Akechi's face and pulled out. He slid off the condom and tied it off, then tucked himself away and arranged his belt. The whole time, Akechi faced away from him, not moving, his hands still gripping the coat hook on the stall door. His breathing had yet to settle, his shoulders rising and falling.

Tied-off condom still in one hand, Akira placed his other hand at the small of Akechi's back and leaned in close to place a soft kiss on the back of his neck, near the junction of his jaw. “I had a really great time.”

In order to get out of the stall, he would have to get Akechi to move. So he gently pulled Akechi's shoulder away from the stall door, turning him around so they were facing each other. For the first time since they'd started fucking, Akechi's eyes were open and looking at him.

Akechi's look was not the controlled, manufactured smile he always showed on TV, nor the polite distance he'd shown Akira in the gallery, or the raw lust he'd revealed to Akira when he came into the bathroom. He seemed terribly vulnerable, right on the verge of something—what, Akira couldn't say—and just barely holding back.

He didn't—recognize that it was Joker, right? Akira had never shown his face in their messages. He'd never given his name. “Joker” was a shut-in. He would never be able to come out to a gallery like this, anyhow.

And even if he did recognize him—even if by some fluke, he'd figured it out—he had no right to be giving Akira a look like that. Akechi only texted “Joker” to get off. Every other kind of conversation, Akira initiated. Akechi was secretive, standoffish, and refused to have a conversation about anything vaguely approaching intimate. He refused to even meet “Joker” in person for vague, flimsy reasons. So Joker wouldn't meet him, either.

But he always replied so quickly. Practically immediately. At any time of day. Even late at night. Did the guy even sleep?

Why did he have to be like that?

“Did you like that painting?” Akira asked him, suddenly.

“Huh?”

“The one you were standing in front of when I approached you. Do you like it?”

Akechi seemed taken aback by the question. Well, it was a strange thing to be asking, at a time like this. Perhaps it was his surprise that made his answer honest. Or maybe the sex had lowered his guard somewhat. “I can't say I do. I kind of hate it, really.”

“Why?”

“ _Why?_ ” Akechi echoed him. “Why ask me that?”

“Come on.”

“I can't stand that sort of cheesy, faux-inspirational, light-at-the-end-of-the-tunnel bullshit.” As he spoke, he wiped himself off with some toilet paper, pulled up his pants, and arranged his clothing.

“I thought your interpretation of it was hopelessness,” Akira shot back.

“Well, art is all about perspective, isn't it?” Akechi said cryptically, his mask sliding back into place as he re-arranged his clothing crisply and precisely, smoothing out every wrinkle. He glanced over at the stall door, then reached over to wipe it off with some toilet paper, tossing that into the toilet and conscientiously flushing.

“I suppose it is,” Akira muttered, and then he unlatched the door and walked out, tossing the condom into the trash and washing his hands. Akechi did not—he was wearing gloves, after all, but he didn't leave the bathroom, either, lingering there by the sink. Akira didn't look at him. He kept his eyes on his hands under the faucet, then looked over at the door as he said, “I'll leave first. You don't want to be seen with me, right?” Then without waiting for a reply, he shook the water off his hands and went out the door.

It was better to run than to face the inevitable rejection.

x x x

After coming out of the bathroom, Akira wandered around a little until he ran into Ryuji again. Ryuji was sort of vaguely glancing at the art with an obvious lack of interest and generally looking bored out of his skull. He perked up when he saw Akira.

“Yo. You were gone for a while!” Ryuji said with a wave, coming over to him. “So?”

Akira just grinned at him.

“What's that mean? Come on,” Ryuji jabbed him with an elbow. “What happened?”

“I fucked him in the mens' washroom,” Akira admitted smoothly, keeping his voice quiet, as they were in a public space.

Ryuji, however, had no such consideration when it came to volume, making a noise somewhere between a snort and a yelp which he smothered with his hand. “Fuckin' seriously?!”

“Fuckin' seriously.”

Akira could see the wheels in Ryuji's brain turning as he attempted to process what Akira had just said. “So then what? Are you gonna see him again later? What'd you talk about?”

Akira shrugged.“No. We didn't talk about anything. He doesn't know I'm the guy he's been texting. I just approached him as a stranger and we fucked. He seemed pretty into it.”

Ryuji looked even more stunned. “Are you for real? Why?!”

“Why?” Akira stared back at him.

“Why hide shit like that? What's the point?” Ryuji flung his arms out in incredulity.

But then Ann showed up, waving to the two of them, and Akira nabbed the opportunity to avoid answering Ryuji's question, waving back at Ann. “Hey! So how's shmoozing going?” he asked her.

Ryuji gave Akira a _don't you fucking dodge this_ glare.

“Awesome!” Ann replied with a grin. “I'm pretty sure I got at least one gig out of this, and a few promising connections. I got to talk with Haru Okumura, too!”

“Oh yeah? What's she like?” Akira asked her. The deeper he got into this conversation, the harder it would make it for Ryuji to talk about what he so clearly wanted to talk about.

“She's really sweet! I thought she would be more stuck-up or something, but she's actually super down to earth. You know she's into gardening, of all things? I guess that's why she's on all those _top ten eligible single_ lists… She's so charming. I wonder why she's not dating anyone? Oh! But you know…” She leaned in closer to the both of them and whispered conspiratorially, as if she were sharing some juicy piece of gossip with them. “This is the second time I've seen Goro Akechi approaching her at an event. I think he might have a crush on her.”

Both Ryuji and Akira snorted loudly.

Ann blinked and looked between the both of them. “What?”

Before Ryuji could open his big, fat mouth, Akira said, “Somehow, I just don't think she's his type.”

“I dunno, he could be b—OW!” Ryuji started, but Akira stomped on his foot to silence him.

Ann narrowed her eyes at both of them, but didn't push the point. “Anyway, I'm not doing anything after this, so I was wondering if you guys were free? We could go out and get something to eat. I dunno about you guys, but I'm starving.”

“Hey, that's a good idea,” Akira said with a smile, desperate to talk about anything but Akechi. “We're here with a couple other friends, though. I'll track them down, and then maybe we can all go out together?”

“The more the merrier!” Ann agreed. “I'm just gonna do one more pass around the place and see if there's anyone else here I need to talk to. I'll text you in like fifteen minutes and we can all meet in the lobby?”

“Sounds good to me,” Akira said, and Ann went off again with another wave.

Ryuji opened his mouth and Akira just knew he was gonna bring up Akechi again, and he did not want to talk about it. “Not now, okay?” Akira said. “Let's go check up on Futaba.”

Ryuji gave him a real death glare, but dropped it, much to Akira's relief.

x x x

They found Futaba and Kitagawa sitting on an unused stairway in a quiet and empty corner of the museum, engaged in animated discussion about _Featherman._ Well, at least things had worked out fine on their end.

“Hey,” Akira greeted them. “Enjoying the art show, I see.”

“We looked at stuff!” Futaba said defensively. “But I got tired, staying on my feet so long, and Y-Yusuke said this was a good spot…” she stuttered shyly over his real name.

“A friend of Ryuji's invited us out to eat someplace,” Akira said. “Do you guys want to go?”

Kitagawa looked interested, but Futaba cringed. “I dunno…” she trailed off.

“It's literally just me and Ryuji, and his friend, and you and Kitagawa. One unfamiliar person. And we can pick somewhere you'd like. You wanna go to a butler cafe?”

Futaba made an embarrassed snort into her hand, blushing. “Y-you need to book like weeks in advance to get a group of five into any of the good ones. I-I mean, you could get super lucky if there's some last-minute cancellation, but it's just not that likely…”

“We could go to Ikebukuro and just check the reservation list at Swallowtail…” Akira said, knowing she would be weak to temptation. “And maybe stop by Kbooks…Mandarake…some arcades…”

“Ikebukuro is so crowded at this time of day…” Futaba squeaked, but Akira could see her eyes misting over.

“A butler cafe?” Kitagawa said, looking at all of them. “What sort of cafe is that? A cafe that…sells butlers?”

Futaba made a strange noise and buried her face in her hands.

“Yeah, Futaba wishes,” Ryuji muttered, and Futaba made another strange, pained noise.

“You know,” Akira said wickedly, “I think you'd do pretty well in a butler cafe, Kitagawa. You have that sort of refined aesthetic going on. I could imagine you in the uniform, with a form-fitting vest, a sleek black jacket with coattails, soft, supple white gloves, black tie tightened in a crisp knot at your neck as you service—”

“Okay, okay, stop!” Futaba waved her hands wildly to cut Akira off before he went too far off the rails. Her face was beet-red. “We'll go there to check it out! But it's gonna be booked, I'm telling you!”

Akira smirked.

x x x

There was one more thing left to do before they went to meet Ann. “I kinda wanna buy a painting,” Akira said to Futaba.

“Dude, actually?” Ryuji said, lifting an eyebrow. “Since when are you into art?”

Akira shrugged. “I dunno. This one just really caught my eye.”

“Most of the art here is rather expensive,” Kitagawa cautioned. “I certainly couldn't afford any of it.”

“Isn't your art displayed here?” Futaba turned to ask him.

“A couple pieces, yes. But mine are some of the cheapest here. And that's not even something I can afford,” he added at a mutter, looking away.

“Well, I wanna see what this piece is you think is so great, Akira,” said Futaba. “If it's ridic expensive, we'll just take a sneaky cell phone photo of it and call it a day.”

Kitagawa looked perfectly scandalized at the very suggestion, but Ryuji seemed to like that idea, nodding.

Akira guided them over to the picture Akechi had been standing in front of before—the semi-abstract one of the dark tunnel and the figure in the light in the distance. “It's this one,” he said.

Upon seeing the painting, Kitagawa blinked. “You don't have to…” he trailed off, a complicated expression on his face.

“Huh?” Akira turned to look back at him.

“I appreciate your goodwill,” Kitagawa said, his tone tense, “But you aren't obligated. I would rather someone buy it for love of the art.”

Akira blinked at him, then looked back at the description card that featured the title and artist. He hadn't even looked at it before. It read _Yusuke Kitagawa._ “Oh! Wait—this was yours? Oh!”

Kitagawa's expression turned into one of surprise. “You really didn't know?”

“I really didn't. I thought your painting here was that other one, that Jackson Pollock and Van Gogh lovemaking one.”

Kitagawa gave a wry grin. “Ah, well, that one was the painting originally meant to be in this exhibition. This one…was coincidental. There happened to be an empty slot at the last minute, so…” he trailed off and shook his head. “If you don't mind me asking, why does this piece interest you?”

Akira looked back at the painting. “Oh…well…I was chatting to someone about it…and I guess it made me see it in a certain way I wouldn't have, otherwise.” He stared at the swirl of dark colors for a while, then asked, turning back to Kitagawa, asked, “What's it supposed to mean, anyway?”

Kitagawa was clearly quite eager to talk about his work, pride on his face. “Well, I would hope that anyone would bring their own point of view to it, but to me…” He tilted his head thoughtfully. “It's about looking back on the past. Even when you stand in the light, darkness remains large behind you.”

“Standing in the light…?” Akira looked back at the painting. “But from the perspective of the viewer, you're standing in darkness.”

“The figure in the painting is in the light, though?” Yusuke pointed out. “But that's a perfectly valid reading. It really depends on your perspective.”

Akira didn't want to think about that statement right now.

“Fifty thousand, huh?” Futaba commented, looking at the listed price.

“I know,” Kitagawa said, tone dry. “And I'm fairly certain this piece is the cheapest in the whole gallery. I would have preferred to price it lower, but there is the cost of supplies, and labor, and the gallery won't permit anything priced below a certain level, and they receive a substantial cut…”

Futaba blinked. “I meant that sounds reasonable. I've spent more on collector merch. Sure, I'll get it for you, Akira.”

Kitagawa stared at her, aghast. “Y-You don't have to…”

“Futaba's loaded,” Ryuji informed him. “Ask her about high-speed stock trading software sometime.”

Futaba blushed “Eh-heh. I'm not as rich as you guys think, okay! But fifty thousand, whatever. I'd buy three. One for display, one for lending, one for storage. Tee-hee.”

Kitagawa was nearly bowled off his feet in a state of absolute shock.

x x x

They purchased the painting at the front—apparently it was going to be specially delivered later—and then met up with Ann, who was waiting for them in the lobby.

“This is Ann Takamaki,” Akira introduced her to Futaba and Kitagawa, and unsurprisingly, Futaba ducked behind Akira, practically on reflex.

Softly, so only Akira could hear, she whispered, _“She looks like a real normie.”_

“She says you look like a real normie,” Akira repeated to Ann, and Futaba squealed and kicked him in the calf.

Ann laughed. “I guess I am a normie, huh? It's funny, I never thought of myself that way.”

“You're outgoing and fashionable,” Akira pointed out. “That makes you a normie.”

“I'm not fashionable, but I'm a normie,” Ryuji pointed out.

“You like sports, though,” Akira pointed out. “For guys, that counts.”

“Are you a normie?” Ryuji asked Akira.

“Um…” Akira thought hard about it. “I…dunno, actually?”

“What's a 'normie'?” Kitagawa asked, confused.

“Don't worry, you're not one,” Futaba said flatly. “And Akira, you're a NEET, and you're a total otaku for _Bloody Justice,_ so you're out, too.”

“You've got a point,” Akira nodded. “Anyway, Ryuji's a normie and you get along with him. So you can get along with Ann, too. She's not _one of those mean girls._ ” He paused, then added, “Are you?”

Ann giggled. “You might not believe this, but I wasn't popular in school at all. I had literally one friend. So no, I was not _one of those mean girls._ ”

“Truth,” Ryuji nodded. “Ann was a loser.”

“I don't believe it,” Futaba muttered quietly, still hiding behind Akira.

Ann caught that, though. “People can end up as outsiders for lots of different reasons. I lived abroad for quite a while, so it was hard for me to fit in, socially, for a long time.”

“Hmm…” Futaba just made a non-committal noise, looking at the ground.

“Anyway, I'm not scary, I promise!” Ann said with a kind smile. “Let's be friends, okay? You can call me Ann.”

“O-okay…” Futaba agreed, if reluctantly, and they all headed to Ikebukuro.

Perhaps because she was squished in between familiar people, Futaba did better than expected, and she made it to their goal without attempting to bail or freezing up even once.

“Oh, my god,” Futaba gasped when she saw the reservation list outside Swallowtail. “They have a free table in fifteen minutes! _They have a free table!”_ She looked like she was about to pass out and die, in a good way, at least. “Hurry up and let's get in there, before someone snatches it!”

“I'm looking forward to seeing what this 'butler cafe' is like,” Kitagawa said with a small smile. They registered themselves and waited at the door, and when their time slot finally began, they all filtered down the stairs. The decor could only be described as _palatial,_ with something that at least looked like carved stone walls and ivy, and the atmosphere was intense.

“Welcome home, Masters, Mistresses,” a butler greeted them with a hand flourish and a crisp, practiced, European-style bow. Futaba was practically foaming at the mouth, while Kitagawa was looking around with curiosity, Ann was giggling to herself, and Ryuji looked embarrassed to be there. Akira was amused, just watching the others.

They were escorted into another room to a booth sectioned off by lacy curtains. Everything about the decor screamed quiet class, the service was astounding, and the butlers were impeccable in every gesture and manner.

“I feel like an actual princess,” Ann whispered at Futaba, who sat beside her in the booth, sitting in the middle seat sandwiched between her and Akira. “I never got why people were into this before, but… _now I get it._ ”

“Right?!” Futaba nodded vigorously. “This is the real-deal experience.” It seemed Futaba's unease around Ann was forgotten now that they could bond over butlers.

On the other side of the booth, Ryuji was looking at the menu like everything in it offended his masculinity, while Kitagawa was admiring the various types of teacups and teapots in the menu and trying to decide which to choose for their order.

Eventually, they all made their orders, and after a wait, the butler came over to pour tea in this dramatic one-handed gesture with one arm up in the air that made both Ann and Futaba make _eep_ noises. Ryuji was rolling his eyes, but also determinedly avoiding looking at the butler that both Ann and Futaba described as _absolutely dreamy,_ and Kitagawa seemed quite impressed with the whole aesthetic experience. When the butler brought them their dinner sets, they all took out their phones to take pictures of the elegant serving arrangements.

Akira rather liked the place. “You've never been to a place like this either, huh, Kitagawa?” he asked.

Kitagawa looked up. “Oh, Futaba told me we're the same age, so you might as well call me Yusuke.”

“Oh, are we?” Akira blinked. “You seem more mature, somehow, so I assumed you were older.”

“I think it's just that you're immature, Akira,” Futaba jabbed him.

“I don't wanna hear that from you,” Akira shot at her, then turned back to Yusuke. “It's good to know that you're not some gross old dude robbing the cradle, though.”

“Gross old dude…?” Yusuke repeated.

“Yeah, Ryuji assumed you were gonna be a swamp monster,” Akira told him.

“A swamp monster…?”

“Don't listen to him, fifty percent of what comes out of his mouth is garbage,” Futaba said, digging into her meal. They'd basically all ordered the same thing, since there wasn't much variety on the menu. It looked amazing, but tasted like a convenience store lunch. Such was the nature of the maid-and-butler racket.

“I resent that remark.” Akira took a sip of his tea. It just tasted like normal black tea, but the teacup was fancy as fuck, and he could appreciate that. “Anyway, so Futaba told me a little about you, Yusuke, but not much. How'd you get into art?” he asked, making conversation.

“Oh, well, I've been an artist my whole life,” Yusuke said, and it didn't sound like he was bragging, and rather just a statement of fact. “If you mean how I made it a career, well…” His expression darkened. “You need connections, to be honest. That's all.”

“You don't need connections to do online commissions and stuff,” Futaba pointed out.

“Ah, well,” Yusuke combed back his hair with his fingers, looking a little embarrassed. “That's different.”

“Embarrassed about slumming in the low-brow scene?” Akira teased him.

“I wouldn't put it that way…” Yusuke beat around the bush, but Akira was sure that he was. “There's a demand, and I fulfill it. That's all.”

“Is that really any different at a fancy gallery, though?”

Yusuke looked down at his plate. “No. It's all the same—no different from any other job. It's just work done for a paycheck,” he said. His words weren't anything shocking, but his tone was bitter as he jabbed his fork into his food and stuck it in his mouth without another word, and the mood at the table darkened into silence.

“Aaaanyway,” Ann said, after a few awkward moments, “is anyone else thinking about cake? Because this place has a lot of great-looking cake.”

The conversation turned to cake, but Futaba continued to shoot concerned looks over at Yusuke, who avoided them. Akira mentally filed the conversation away.

x x x

Their allotted time at the butler cafe was over very quickly, and Ann was eager to go hang out somewhere else, after, but Futaba was showing signs of exhaustion, so they decided to call it a day and promised to get together again soon. They walked back to the train station together and all got on their respective trains. Yusuke said he would accompany Futaba back to her station, so Akira and Ryuji went back to their apartment.

It wasn't until they were back home and the door was closed that Ryuji cornered him with that question that Akira had hoped he'd forgotten about. “Seriously, why aren't you telling Akechi you're the same guy he's been texting all month? You make him believe you're just some rando who wanted stranger sex and walk off without saying anything? What the fuck, man?”

Akira didn't answer right away, taking off his shoes and jacket, then his pants, going into his room to toss them over his desk chair, and Ryuji followed him, not letting him escape the question.

“It's pretty obvious you're crazy about him. You're on your phone constantly, and every time I ask what's up, you're texting him. Why're you playing these weird games?”

Akira pulled off his shirt, tossing that onto his chair as well before he picked his lounging sweatpants off the chair and pulled those on, then he turned back to Ryuji. “Yeah, sure, I'm infatuated with this guy, but you're taking it way more seriously than I am. I did it because it was hot. He seemed to love it, too. It's really just about sex, Ryuji.”

Ryuji's face said he really wasn't buying it. “That's bullshit, and you know it. You'd get laid easier if you just told him the truth!”

“Why so interested in my sex life, anyway, Ryuji?” Akira approached him, shirtless in his low-slung sweatpants, and leaned in close, teasing. “You miss this? You know I'm always game.”

“Cut it out,” Ryuji turned his head aside, but his face was red. “You always just want to flirt your way out of everything.”

“Well, it works,” Akira said, pushing further into Ryuji's space while not ever quite touching him. “And you like it.”

“Agh! Seriously, just fucking stop!” Ryuji shoved him in the chest, and Akira staggered back a bit, but the cocky smile stayed on his face.

“Do you have to be like that?” Akira said, running a hand through his hair with a sigh. “I'm just having fun with you.”

“Yeah, that's the fucking problem!” Ryuji smacked the door frame with a fist. “When it's about someone else, you'll drag out their whole life fucking story and hold their hand while they cry, but try to talk about Akira Kurusu and it's just flirt flirt flirt, dodge dodge dodge!”

“There's nothing to talk about,” Akira said with a shrug. “You're reading too much into things.”

“Oh, please. You know I'm too stupid to read too deep into anything,” Ryuji said, and Akira winced a little at his tone.

Akira half-turned away, avoiding Ryuji's eyes. “Look, what I do with my relationships is my business. You already decided you're out. So stay out.”

Ryuji smacked the door frame again, his expression open anger. “You're gonna bring up ancient history, now? We were teenagers! And I didn't dump you because I don't care about you! I dumped you because you're about as emotionally available as a brick wall! And when I see you pulling the same sort of shit with someone else, I get concerned, okay! So _excuse_ me for giving a shit!”

Ryuji's words stung like the truth. Ryuji was so painfully honest, it made it hard to lie to him. It had been hard to be with him. It was easier to be around someone who would lie back to him, instead.

Akira turned his head around, an ironic grin on his face. “If you think I'm emotionally unavailable, you should try talking to Akechi. He really takes it to the next level. It's impressive, really.”

Ryuji's anger wilted as quickly as it had blossomed, and he slumped against the door frame. “Why are you so into him?”

“Are you jealous?”

“…Yeah.”

Akira was a bit stunned. He'd made that remark offhand—he hadn't been expecting a confession.

“I just want you to be happy,” Ryuji said, face red as he rubbed the back of his head, looking at the floor.

Akira was choked into silence. This was why it was so hard to lie to Ryuji. His honesty made Akira's lies feel so cheap.

“…Thank…you,” Akira said finally, turning away. “I just—need to figure things out myself. It's not something you can help with. There's no point in talking about it.”

“…Okay,” Ryuji replied. Watching out of the corner of his eye, Akira could see Ryuji was hurt, his eyes downcast. And that the guilt of that hurt Akira more than anything Ryuji could have said.

Akira folded his arms and swallowed his pride. “I don't know, okay?”

“Huh?” Ryuji's head jerked up.

“I don't know why I'm so into him. I know I'm being stupid and it's a bad idea. I shouldn't even be trying to pursue him. He's red flag after red flag.” And that was true enough. He could sit back and armchair-psychologize himself about it—maybe it was about chasing rejection, and that it was easier to pursue someone he _knew_ didn't want him than to get invested and get shown the door down the road, just like his family and all his friends had, just like Ryuji had _(though he knew that wasn't being fair, Ryuji hadn't really abandoned him, it just felt like he had.)_ But that was just rationalization after the fact. He was moving on pure impulse and he couldn't stop.

“Look…” Ryuji paused, as if carefully thinking about what to say. “You can't have a relationship if you never open up to someone, but expect them to open up to you.”

Akira rolled his eyes. “Yes, you can. It's called Futaba. And I don't expect him to open up to me, anyway.”

Ryuji snorted. “But you don't wanna be with Futaba. You want someone you feel you can depend on. And you _want_ him to open up to you.”

Akira opened his mouth, stared at Ryuji, then closed it. Suddenly, he felt exposed. He went to go put on a shirt.

“What, you're surprised I know you that well? Come _on._ You can act all cocky and in control with everyone else, but I'm not gonna buy it. You're a needy, lonely fuck and you want this guy to be your boyfriend for real! Don't bother trying to lie to _me_ about that—or to yourself!”

Akira grabbed a shirt out of his closet and pulled it over his head, still keeping his back to Ryuji. “Can you…leave me alone for a bit? I just want to think about things by myself.”

Ryuji sighed and pushed off the door frame. “Okay. Just think about what I said. Don't be an idiot.” He turned away, and closed Akira's door behind him.

Akira flopped down onto his bed, then recalled that his phone was in his jeans pocket, went over to the chair to grab it, and threw himself down on the bed again. He stared at the phone, the screen off. He thought about that look Akechi had given him in the bathroom. What if he did know?

If he did know, he'd probably stop texting. Akira didn't know much about him, but he could tell that was the sort of person he was. He would deliberately, surgically remove any person in his life who got too close. It was obvious from the way he maintained his distance with Akira. The only way Akira could keep contact with him was by maintaining this holding pattern and pretending like their relationship was not even worth cutting off.

Or was this just a story he was trying to convince himself of? He didn't know. There was no way to know. But it would be so simple for Akechi to drop him without a thought. To just block his number and stop responding. Their connection was nothing. Akira was too scared to risk it.

He wanted to text Akechi. He really wanted to text Akechi. But if he were to start now, he would probably spill everything—the whole stupid farce. And what reason would Akechi have to stick around when he knew Akira had been lying to him over and over again, right up to this bathroom incident?

Akira grabbed a pillow and hugged it to his chest. He knew Ryuji was right. He'd known that for some time. It was just easier when he was the only one thinking that to himself, rather than other people saying it to his face, making it clear he was doing a shit job at hiding it all.

Of _course_ he wanted Akechi as a real boyfriend. He wished Akechi were here in bed with him right this moment so he could be squeezing another human being rather than a pillow, so he could cry into his arms instead of trying not to cry against the pillowcase. But that was a fantasy. This was reality. So he would just have to take what he could get.

 


	6. Azazel

 

After the art gallery event, Akira half-convinced himself that Akechi had figured out he was Joker and was so enraged by the deception that he would immediately just cut contact and never text him again.

His worries quickly proved unfounded—or at least somewhat unfounded—as the day after the event, Akechi texted him. Akira was lying on his back on the couch semi-watching TV and semi-brooding as Morgana lay curled up in the place of honor on his stomach, being heavy and warm.

**So have you been getting out of the house much?**

Akira stared at his phone. This was literally the first time Akechi had ever messaged him with anything other than sexting. He wasn't sure what to think.

 **A little,** he replied, cautiously. **More than before. I've been forcing myself to go to a few local shops and restaurants and things.**

**That's good.**

A bit of a pause. Akira wasn't even sure what to reply to that, but he didn't have to think up anything, as Akechi added, **Not anywhere else?**

 **Like where?** Akira replied.

**Like the library, or movie theaters, or art galleries…**

The third item just casually inserted in at the end of that list started Akira sweating. He didn't… _know,_ right? If he did know, he wouldn't be texting. Right?

 **The library, sometimes, but there aren't any movie theaters or galleries close to where I live,** Akira replied.

**I see.**

That reply was too short. What was that supposed to mean?

 **What, you wanna ask me on a date? <3 **Akira replied. When in doubt, flirt.

**Ha ha, no. I was just curious to know how you're doing. Since you said you've been trying to get out more.**

**You never asked me stuff like this before.**

A pause. Akira felt like he might burn a hole through his phone with his stare, waiting.

**I'm just curious.**

Akira's fingers flew over the screen. **You're curious about me? <3 <3 <3**

**I'm not sure what you're reading into this. I just don't know have any clue what you do or what you're like in real life. It's only natural to want to know.**

**I'm not that interesting in real life,** Akira replied. **I watch TV. Exercise at home. Surf the internet. Read books. I don't talk to people much, aside from the ones I've told you about.**

**I see.**

Again with the short replies that could mean anything.

 **I probably come off more outgoing in text, but I'm pretty shy IRL,** Akira added. That was a fairly safe Futaba trait.

**I see.**

Akira jerked into a sitting position, knocking off a disgruntled Morgana. What the hell was that supposed to even mean?! Why was he asking if he wasn't going to say anything about it?! Was this grilling session because he was suspicious, or not?

Whatever. If Akechi was going to be grilling, then Akira was going to do some grilling too.

**What are *you* like in real life?**

**Me?**

**Who else would I be asking?**

**Haha. Well, I suppose I'm a talkative person. I like conversation, going to events, and meeting people.**

Akira could help but roll his eyes at his phone. This guy's self-description was the steamingest pile of fake bullshit Akira had heard all year. **Bitch, please. If you're actually such a social butterfly, then why spend all this time texting me?**

A long pause. Akira was about to put his phone down, assuming this was another one of those questions that would just make Akechi go silent, but he did reply.

**I like talking to you.**

“Ah, fuck…” Akira rubbed his face with his hand, closing his eyes. He sure was pathetic, getting excited over being thrown the tiniest bone of bones. **Then why don't you want to see me in person?** He typed out with aggressive, frustrated fingers.

The only reply he got was, **I'm sorry.**

x x x

Since Futaba had met Mr. Blue Fox in real life, over the course of some weeks, there was a marked drop-off in the volume of her texting and pestering Akira to come over. Of course, she still texted every day and he went over to her place multiple times a week, but her attitude toward him very suddenly went from distressing levels of over-attachment to merely worrying levels of over-attachment, and Akira wasn't sure if he was relieved or miffed about it.

The other thing that had changed in the past several weeks was that Futaba now talked about Yusuke all the time. Yusuke was painting this thing. Yusuke liked this food. Yusuke listened to that music. Yusuke had said some funny thing.

And that day was no different. Futaba had supposedly invited him over to play games with him on her spare computer (he could do this from home, but it was more fun being in the same room), but this quickly ended up being another long Yusuke session.

Not like Akira really minded. Futaba tended to babble on about whatever she was into at the moment, and Yusuke was actually one of her least boring hobbies. It was a hell of a lot less boring than when she tried to explain programming concepts to him.

“It's just, it's like he always has his head in the clouds, so it's hard to tell what he's thinking about,” Futaba said, facing her computer. She'd set up the desk extension for Akira to sit beside her. The extra PC tower was on the floor, and she'd hooked it up to her secondary monitor. They were basically just farming together in some new MMO Futaba would probably spend a few dozen hours on and then drop, so minimal concentration was required from either of them. “Actually, I have no clue what he's thinking about, ever.”

“You could just…ask him.” Akira pointed out as he clicked away lazily.

“I mean, I do! All the time! Though his answers are usually weird. But that's okay. But there are some things that are hard to ask, you know?”

“Like what?”

“Like about his parents. I know they're not in the picture. I think he implied his mom is dead, but his dad is still around? He was being pretty vague. I don't know. He's totally obsessed with money, like he budgets everything down to the yen, he has an app on his phone to keep track of every single expense, and he literally would never eat out—like not even ramen—if I weren't paying. And then he gets all guilty when I pay all the time. And when I asked him why he stresses so much about money, like, it seems like he makes a decent amount through commissions and stuff, and he's in galleries! He's always got work. He seems pretty successful, for an artist. He just…didn't want to talk about it.” Futaba's keyboard and mouse went silent, and then she went, “Ah, shit,” as she took a bunch of damage from a mob that should've been easy and had to go off to heal. She really wasn't concentrating on the game.

“You know the trick to getting guys to talk about stuff they don't want to talk about, right?” Akira said, face still on the screen.

“Huh? What?”

“You suck his dick first.”

Futaba clearly hit the wrong hotkey—or five—or something, because she suddenly started casting a string of spells that were rather useless for the situation. “Agh!”

“It totally works, you know,” Akira said as he calmly continued to mow down mobs.

“W-well, about that…” Futaba hemmed and hawed. “Um. How do I make that happen?”

“Wait.” Akira extricated himself from the crowd of mobs and teleported to safety so he could turn around and look at Futaba. “You guys haven't fucked? It's been over a month. You're both adults! Theoretically. What's the hold up?”

Futaba got her character out of combat, too, and turned to Akira. “Um, I tried! I really tried! I did!”

Akira narrowed his eyes at her.

Futaba slowly turned red. “I…offered to model nude for him…and I told him…” she covered her face with her hands, “…to paint me like one of his French girls.”

“…And?”

Futaba's hands came down from her face, and there were tears in her eyes. “He just painted me, then took me home.”

Well. That was pretty bad. “…Is he gay?” Akira was forced to ask.

“I…don't think so? I mean, why would he be spending all this time with me if he wasn't into girls?! I'm not just his gal pal, am I?! Ahhhh!”

Futaba was ready to work herself into a tizzy over this. There was only one way to resolve this situation. Akira pulled out his phone, scrolled down to _Yusuke Kitagawa,_ and texted him.

 **Hey,** **are you gay?**

Conveniently enough, the answer came back fairly quickly.

**No. I'm attracted to women. Why do you ask?**

Akira turned his phone around to show the reply to Futaba, who screeched in response.

“You can't just ask people that!”

“Why not?” Akira replied. “I do it all the time.”

“I guess…I have to defer to your expertise in that area…” Futaba was forced to admit with a moan.

Akira typed out a response to Yusuke. **Futaba is worried you might be gay because you won't have sex with her.**

The reply was immediate. **?????**

A pause, and then, **I never said that, though?**

Akira turned around the phone and showed it to Futaba again, and she shrieked even louder and yanked the phone out of his hands, one might assume to prevent him from doing any more damage to her love life, before escaping to her bed with it and burrowing under the covers. “I hate you, Akira!”

“I solved your problem!” Akira pointed out to her, well aware that it was his methodology she had a problem with.

Futaba didn't reply to him for a while, so Akira asked, “Are you texting him?”

“…Maybe.”

“Can I have my phone back sometime?”

“…No.”

“Guess I'll just have to turn off your computer, since you're not using it…”

“AHH! NO! STOP! MY BABY!”

x x x

Futaba was a babbler. She would talk about things she liked, whether or not it was the appropriate time or the appropriate place.

This also meant that she was pretty bad at keeping secrets. But even saying that, the only person who she felt fully comfortable babbling to was Akira, so functionally, this just meant that anything anyone said to her was basically like telling it straight to Akira's face. She didn't do it out of malice, and Akira was good at keeping his mouth shut about things, but still, there were some things Akira really felt it would be better if she would just not tell him.

One of those things was every miserable detail of Yusuke's personal history. Akira was fairly sure he was telling her these things in confidence.

Akira was out having ramen one evening, sitting at the front counter, when Futaba decided to text up a storm to him on exactly that subject. His noodles were getting mushy just reading it all.

**And when Yusuke finally stood up to him and said, “I'm not gonna paint stuff and let you take credit for it anymore,” Madarame just kicked him out on the street! Like what the hell! How can you raise someone from childhood and then just wash your hands of them like that?!**

**Surprisingly easily,** Akira replied.

 **Oh.** Futaba seemed to realize who she was talking to. **Yeah, of course. I guess…there's a lot of rotten parents in the world. At least…I got to have a good one for a long time. I just wish I could've been a better daughter while she was still alive. I wish I'd forced myself to go to school then. I only made it worse.**

Futaba had started refusing to go to school around middle school age, but had only gone full hikki after her mother's death, shortly after she'd turned eighteen. Akira had never gotten to meet her mother.

 **My problems then were so stupid,** she continued. **There were other kids who had it worse. And I think avoiding everything just made me more scared of everything.**

Akira blinked at his phone as he swirled his chopsticks around in his soggy ramen with one hand. **I think that's the most mature thing I've heard you say all year.**

**Hey! I'm not as bad as you think I am, okay! I do have some perspective! It's just…even knowing what you're supposed to do, it's hard to actually do it. Y'know. Just like Sana Seigi always says.**

**Real life lessons from Sana Seigi, man,** Akira replied with all sincerity. **Agh, I'm dying for the new book to come out already**.

**Right?! I think it was supposed to be March? That's foreverrrrr from now. How do I fill the time?!!!!!11 What is life without Bloody Justice??!**

**I think there's a lot of very productive things you could be doing with your life.**

**Productive, but not exciting.**

A pause, then she continued, **ANYWAY so BACK TO YUSUKE! So he's totally amazing, I mean, he was homeless, he got himself off the streets and busted his ass working his way through art school, and when he FINALLY gets the chance to try to break back into fancy galleries again, you know what happens?**

 **What happens?** Akira replied, knowing she would answer her own question regardless.

**Madarame totally cockblocked him! He used his influence to blacklist Yusuke at basically every gallery, so nobody will take his work! So Yusuke had to go crawling back to Madarame to beg him to stop. And you know what Madarame did?**

**What did he do?** Akira slurped down the remainder of his soggy ramen while he waited for Futaba to type.

**He said, “Sure, I'll let you get into galleries under your own name. But I get all the money. Plus, you play me extra, for getting you the exposure.” And Yusuke's just been paying it. Even for that painting I bought you, Madarame was the one to get all the money.**

**That's pretty shitty, all right.**

**It's beyond shitty. You and Ryuji come over tonight or tomorrow. I've got to tell you the rest in person.**

Sitting in front of a bowl of cooling broth, Akira frowned. **What? You want to tell Ryuji all this?**

**I'm not gonna tell him everything. But there's some important stuff both of you should hear. Not over text.**

That sounded ominous.

x x x

Akira was feeling antsy, so he stayed standing near Futaba's door, hands in his pockets. Ryuji seemed to have picked up on his anxiety, as he was sitting on the bed but not leaning, looking at Futaba with some apprehension.

“So what's this about Madarame, then?” Akira asked her.

“Who?” Ryuji asked.

“He's the old artist dude who was at that gallery show last month,” Futaba explained. “He basically raised Yusuke.”

“Uh…I guess I kinda remember someone like that…” Ryuji clearly didn't remember at all.

“Anyway,” Futaba continued, “I don't think Yusuke is the only person he's been extorting. I sorta looked into him a little…”

Akira facepalmed. “You're such a stalker, Futaba… Have you gotten copies of Yusuke's birth certificate yet? DNA samples?”

“Hey!” Futaba turned her spinny chair to point at him. “I wouldn't do that! …Unless there was good reason to. Look, I looked into him because I've spent the past few years researching a _lot_ of people with their fingers in dirty money, and his situation stinks like dirty money. My hunch was telling me he's a fishy, fishy man.”

“Uh-huh…”

“What do you mean, dirty money?” Ryuji asked.

“I mean that I think he gets his money in sketchy ways, by extorting people like Yusuke, and he passes it on to sketchy people,” Futaba explained. “He's had a lot of students, but few of them have been very successful. Mostly, they burn out early. I got in contact with one who just straight-up refused to say anything about Madarame, like he was scared of what would happen.”

“So he's a shitty teacher, so what?” said Akira.

“Not just that. He's loaded, and like a lot of rich guys, he makes donations to lots of places. Certain kinds of donations are public record. And you know the place he's given the biggest donations to?”

“Who?”

“A certain medical-based nonprofit organization that's run by literally the CEO of our old friend Belial inc.”

Akira shifted his weight to lean on one leg, considering. “That sounds fishy. But…it doesn't prove anything, really, other than a tenuous connection.”

“I know.” Futaba nodded. “Which is why we're gonna find out more ourselves.”

“Find out more…how?” Ryuji asked, suspicious.

“Uh…I was thinking Akira can tie him to a chair and threaten him and stuff?”

“Oh, my God, Futaba.” Akira covered his face in his hands. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah?”

“Agh…” Akira moaned. “That's a terrible idea.”

“How is it terrible?!”

“First of all, what if he recognizes me? I was at that gallery show. And I'm not that many degrees of separation removed from him.”

Futaba scoffed. “Just wear a stocking over your head and do a funny voice. _Do a Batman voice,_ ” she said, in a really terrible Batman voice.

Ryuji snorted. “You wanna threaten him, not make him laugh.”

“I'm pretty sure Batman actually uses some kind of made-up tech to change his voice,” Akira said dryly. “But fine, let's say I can somehow pull off a Batman voice. You do realize that interrogation is…a whole area that I have absolutely zero experience in, right? I'm not actually Batman, Futaba.”

“Come on, you've read _Truth-Seeker!_ ” That was another _Bloody Justice_ book. “You know that scene where Sana pretends to be on that bad guy's side to get him to cough up all that information?”

“Agh…” Now Ryuji was the one covering his face with his hands, probably exasperated with the fact that Futaba was now apparently trying to enact popular mystery novels in real life.

Akira, however, thought that idea wasn't so bad. “What's your plan, exactly?”

“Well, he's passing money on to some shady peeps, right? So you pretend to be some vague, shady dude with some vague accusations about him not doing a good enough job. Like, _the higher-ups aren't happy with your contributions,_ or like, _Do you think we haven't noticed?_ And if he seems legit confused, you know he's clean, but if he's like, _I-I'm sorry! I'll give you more money!_ ” then you know he's dirty.”

That was actually a pretty smart idea. Well, _Bloody Justice_ was filled with smart ideas. Akira would be lying if he were to say that he wasn't interested in pulling a real Sana Seigi himself. “Hmm…”

Ryuji, however, looked horrified. “Wait, is she convincing you?!” He stabbed a finger at Akira. “You just like this idea because she ripped it from those damn books!”

Akira shrugged. “A good idea is a good idea…”

“And what about Kaneshiro?” Ryuji pointed out. “Shouldn't we be getting our asses on that?”

Futaba shook her head. “I need more time to research him. He's a way harder mark. This'll be easy, in comparison. So come on.”

“Agh…”

The light flashed on Futaba's glasses.

x x x

It took a little bit of coaxing and arm-twisting to get Ryuji on board, but he eventually agreed to it. Futaba had apparently been slowly drawing information about Madarame from Yusuke for the past couple months, and she knew enough about his schedule, home, and lifestyle to know where he lived, when he would be alone at home, and how best to break into his rather lavish residence.

Late at night, Ryuji parked a couple blocks down the road from Madarame's residence in an unobtrusive alley. He flipped up his helmet visor to give Akira an _I really don't fucking like this_ look as Akira handed him his own helmet, checked his earpiece, and made sure he had everything he needed in his backpack. Rope. Duct tape. Mini-flashlight. Stocking. Screwdriver. Lock picks. Digital audio recorder—he set that to record right away, with the mini-microphone at his chest. Futaba and Ryuji would both be able to hear everything he heard, and it would all be recorded. He hadn't brought any guns, but he did have a knife, just in case. He ripped off a strip of duct tape ahead of time and stuck the edge on his pants.

The night was crisp and cold. Akira could see his breath in the air.

Akira gave Ryuji confident grin in an attempt to assuage his anxieties, and it seemed to work, if only slightly. He knew Ryuji would trust his decisions, even the crazy ones.

“ _You ready, Joker?”_ Futaba whispered in his ear.

“Uh-huh,” Akira replied.

“ _Good to go,”_ Ryuji said, and Akira heard the echo of him talking both in front of him and in the earpiece.

Right in front of the door, Akira pulled the stocking over his head to conceal his face. Futaba had said there were no security cameras out here—well, that wasn't something a private residence usually had, even for a wealthy man like Madarame.

Lockpicking was a surprisingly easy skill, once you knew the basics. A cheap set of picks, some practice locks, and some Youtube videos later, and you could crack most doors. Most homes did not have serious locks. He was through in under a minute and walked through the dark, a mini-flashlight in his mouth, a few steps ahead and then turned right to where Futaba had told him the home security system panel was. He pried it open with the screwdriver, disconnected the phone and power lines, and it was done. Nobody would be interrupting this.

It was too dark to see much, so Akira used the mini-flashlight, shading the beam with his hand to keep the light to a minimum. He wandered a bit, going into a few wrong rooms before he came to what seemed to be the master bedroom, putting his gloved hand softly on the doorknob and twisting slowly. He paused for a good few moments at the door, picking out the shape of a bed.

Madarame was not a young man. Physically overpowering him would be easy. The key was to keep him quiet.

Akira tucked the pocket flashlight away and got out his rope, winding it around one arm so he could have both hands free. Then cautiously, quietly, he came up to the side of the bed. The light of the moon streamed in from outside, illuminating the old man's face as he slept on his back, long hair laid out on the pillow beside him. The covers were up around his neck, but Akira could see the corner of a traditional-style sleeping robe. Up close, he seemed quite old. Hopefully this wouldn't give him a heart attack.

Akira leaned over, one hand smacking over Madarame's mouth, the other grabbing him by the shoulder of his robe, hauling him over in one yank until he had Madarame in a firm hold against his chest, one elbow around his neck and the other over his mouth.

Madarame awoke with a jerk, flailing reflexively against Akira's grasp, yelling smothered against Akira's hand.

Akira spoke to him calmly in his best Batman voice, just like he'd practiced with Futaba. He felt extremely silly about it, but he had to admit it was a pretty good idea for maintaining anonymity. “I'm not going to kill you—if you don't give me any reasons to. So stay quiet.” Madarame quickly settled down. Akira took the piece of duct tape off his thigh and used it to cover Madarame's mouth just in case, then tugged him off the bed. He looked around—his original plan had been to tie the guy to a chair, as per Futaba's original suggestion, but he couldn't find one, so whatever. He bound Madarame's hands and feet securely behind him and laid him on his side on the floor of his bedroom. It was dark and his own face was obscured by the stocking, but he still felt it was better if Madarame saw as little of him as possible. But seeing Madarame's face could be useful. So he pulled out his flashlight, rifled through Madarame's closet for a tie, and blindfolded him with it.

Then he circled around to Madarame's front, shone the flashlight at his face, and reached around to rip the strip of duct tape off Madarame's mouth. The old man yelped, but not too loud.

“Wh-who are you?” Madarame stuttered.

“I'm just an employee, here to do a job,” Akira said carefully. This was one of the many lines the three of them had cooked up together, and Akira would do the best he could to stick to the script.

“Wh-who do you work for?” Madarame replied. Well, that was a promising answer.

“I think you know,” Akira replied.

Madarame's expression was tense. “Y-you're him?”

“ _Oh, shit,”_ Ryuji muttered in his ear.

“ _Shut up,”_ Futaba's voice hissed.

“Who else would I be?” Akira said, his tone disdainful.

“But you said you weren't going to kill me!”

The wheels in Akira's mind spun quickly. Madarame clearly thought he was an assassin—and a very particular one at that. “ _Probably_ not. It depends on how you behave.”

“I've done everything I was told!”

“Oh, you make it seem that way,” Akira told him, a smile curving on his lips. It was clear there was something dirty going on here, and he was starting to get into this. “But you like to keep secrets, don't you? Secrets that could damage our interests.”

Madarame blanched into the light of Akira's mini-flashlight. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

Akira's hand shot out to grab Madarame's neck, squeezing just a bit, threatening. “I don't think you want to lie to me.”

Madarame made a choked noise, then stuttered, “Y-you know where I get all my money. It's just the counterfeits, I swear.”

“…Just the art,” Akira hazarded a fairly safe guess.

“Just the art!”

“You're not doing anything _else_ with the art, are you?” Akira kept his hand on Madarame's neck, squeezing with light pressure—not enough to hurt, just enough to remind him what he _could_ do.

Madarame's expression was pained. “I've been…in talks. With some international sources. I roped some more artists in to do the work. But the deal isn't in the clear yet, I swear to you! I meant to tell you once the deal was cleared! I was going to tell our contact in the police, just like always!”

“ _The police?!”_ Ryuji's voice hissed through the mic.

“ _Shut up, Skull!”_ Futaba told him again.

This was a shitload of information, and more than enough to confirm their suspicions of Madarame's involvement in something extremely shady. But Akira was on a high, now. He wanted to push this as far as he could go. He wanted to make sure he was digging down to the very bottom of this well of filth.

“I think there's _one more thing_ you're not telling me,” Akira continued, and as he spoke, he wedged his flashlight in the pit of his knee to free his other hand and bring it up to Madarame's eye, slipping his thumb underneath the blindfold to just _touch_ his eyeball, not even pressing yet. He just wanted Madarame to be aware of what Akira was willing to do.

“N-no! There's no more! I swear!” Madarame's neck under Akira's left hand was sweating.

“Really?” Akira pressed Madarame's eyeball, just a bit. “I think you've got something a little more incriminating than counterfeiting under your belt. Something that could pose a risk to us.” He pushed a little harder. “Artists need eyes, don't they? …Or do you even paint any of it yourself anymore?” He pushed with a guess, and was rewarded by Madarame's clear expression of humiliation.

“I-I swear! There's nothing! Nothing that could pose a risk to you!”

That wording was a little suspicious. “I think we'll be the judge of what poses risk.” Akira massaged Madarame's eyelid, rocking his thumb back and forth, pressing and then releasing.

“I-it was…so long ago…and they never proved anything!”

Akira leaned in close to whisper to him, and his heart was racing. “If you tell me now, we can ensure it stays under wraps forever. You don't want some _honest_ cop taking on cold cases, do you?”

Madarame made a pathetic, whimpering noise. “I never touched Kitagawa. She had a seizure. I just let her die. I needed her painting. I needed _Sayuri._ That's all. That's all. And it's made so much money for you, now, right? It worked out for you.” He was babbling, half-sobbing in fear. Akira wondered if he had wet himself, and vaguely hoped that he had.

Akira caught the name _Kitagawa,_ but he didn't know enough background information to figure out what he was talking about until Futaba said, _“…That's…he's saying…he let Yusuke's mom die. He killed Yusuke's mom.”_

Akira didn't say anything. He had to maintain his act in front of Madarame. That was the best way to stop any of this from getting tracked back to them—to pin it all on this mysterious hitman.

“ _That's some fucked up shit,”_ Ryuji said, _“But we got what we came for. You should get out, Akira. Come on.”_

“ _No,”_ said Futaba, _“Don't. We can't just let him go.”_ Her voice was harsh. Harsher than Akira had ever heard it before.

“ _Are you gonna tell Joker to kill this guy? Are you serious?”_ Ryuji asked, incredulous.

“ _Why not? He's a murderer. We've killed murderers before.”_

“ _He let someone die. That's not the same thing.”_

“ _Yes, it is!”_

Ryuji sounded frustrated. _“He's not on the same level as the types we usually go for.”_

“ _Yes, he is! He's admitted to being a part of this same big stinking conspiracy!”_

“ _Yeah, sure, he's giving them money. But that doesn't mean he's in on anything directly. He's a piece of shit, but he's not directly killing anyone.”_

“ _He's indirectly killed someone!”_ Futaba was yelling. Akira had his earpiece turned down enough that it didn't bother him, and he was sure Madarame couldn't hear, either.

“ _Like twenty years ago. He's not going around killing people now. Killing him isn't gonna save anyone.”_

“ _HE'S GUILTY!”_

“ _This is obviously about your mom,”_ Ryuji said, and Akira could hear him spit into the mike. _“You just want Akira to do your dirty work 'cause you get off on the fucking control.”_ The way he'd dropped using code names told Akira just how angry he really was. Akira's earpiece went silent for a full five seconds.

“ _Do you think Yusuke would want him dead?”_ Ryuji added, and there was another silence.

Akira waited. Whatever Futaba told him to do, he would do it.

“… _Fine. Get out now, Joker,”_ Futaba said, and her voice was flat.

Madarame was sobbing. Akira could feel the warmth of his tears soaking the blindfold.

Akira released Madarame from his grip, then stepped over him and undid his hands and feet and hauled him back into the bed. He left the blindfold on. It was his own tie, after all.

Fewer words were better in situations like these. Anything he said could potentially reveal information. Grabbing his rope and coiling it around his arm, he walked out of the bedroom, and Madarame never moved off the bed. Akira could hear him still sobbing as he closed the door.

Akira wasn't sure if he was relieved or disappointed.

x x x

The ride back was tense. Ryuji cut the connection to Futaba and connected their two helmet headsets only. Leaning against Ryuji's back, Akira's heart was still racing.

“Would you've done it, if she'd told you to?” Ryuji asked him bluntly as they rode.

“Yes,” Akira answered honestly.

“Why?!”

“Because I promised her when we started that I would do whatever she said when we were on a job.” Akira knew even as he was saying it that this wasn't the full truth, or not entirely true. But neither was he quite certain himself what the truth was, yet.

“Maybe you should break that promise, sometimes.”

“Wow, Ryuji the hothead is suddenly the voice of reason?” he said lightly, but it sounded forced, even to him.

Ryuji ignored his attempt at levity. “Shut up, I'm being serious, man. I think a lot of Futaba's decisions are good, but they're not all good. We need to keep her in check. She listens to you—more than me. _You_ need to keep her in check.”

“I couldn't say anything just now, given the situation.”

“I get that. I mean next time. And I think there's gonna be a next time.”

Akira didn't say anything. He just leaned into Ryuji's back and felt his heart calm.

x x x

When they got home, Akira messaged Futaba through their secure app to ask what they were going to do about the information they'd learned, but she wasn't replying to his texts, or to Ryuji's either. It seemed she wanted to sulk about this. So be it.

Akira threw himself down on the couch, and as was his habit these days whenever he had his phone out, he decided to text Akechi.

Over the course of the past couple months, Akira had gleaned some little bits and scraps of information about him. He lived alone (obviously). He drank an ungodly amount of coffee (that explained all the texting in the middle of the night). Akira now knew what sort of books and movies Akechi liked, the sorts of foods he ate, his hobbies (cycling, apparently), and that he apparently loved cats, but couldn't have one because of rental rules. Akira sent him pictures of Morgana.

It was all very safe. Very unrevealing. Akira shared similar safe, unrevealing facts about himself, as well. Akira loved to talk about these things, because it meant Akechi was talking to him, but simultaneously, he couldn't help but hate the blatant, obvious line drawn between them. He hated it more every day, and he hated himself for being too much of a coward to push it.

The only thing he felt he could push about—always jokingly, always flirtatiously—was Akechi's sex life.

 **Soooo fuck any hot strangers lately?** Akira asked him.

 **What?** Came the reply.

**You said you only fuck strangers.**

**Yes, mostly.**

**Mostly??**

Akechi ignored his question. **It's not often that it happens, to be honest.**

 **You're just gonna ignore my question?** Akira pushed.

Apparently, he was. **But there was one recently. I met him at an art gallery.**

 **Oh?** Akira's mouth went dry.

**It was really unexpected.**

**Is that all? Was he good?**

A few minutes of silence. **It was the best sex I've ever had in my life.**

 **You're gonna make me jealous, here,** Akira replied, heart racing.

**There's nothing for you to be jealous about. It's not as if I'll ever see him again.**

Akira held his breath. **What? Why not?**

**I don't have any means to contact him again. It was anonymous. And even if I did, I would never see him again, anyway.**

**What? Why not, if it was that great?**

Akechi didn't reply again, and Akira threw his phone across the room.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just realized I never said this, but I'm totally interested in receiving criticism/critical comments, if you have anything to say about like...characterization... pacing... scenes... dialogue... 
> 
> I think my greatest weakness is in setting, description and detail. I'm just like, dialogue, dialogue, dialogue. I always have to add in description after because I forget. Anyway, criticism welcome.


	7. Playing Pretend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited for sniping realism yet again. It generally takes two shots to kill a target, kids. Kudos goes to my roommate for his military otaku knowledge. Also aim for center of mass, not the head. And from that distance, the bullet would probably not pass through the target. ...Not like anyone cares but me, I'm sure.
> 
> Also TIL JFK was assassinated by an extremely skilled marksman with a bolt-action rifle.

 

It wasn't long before Christmas rolled around, and Akira was feeling quite Scroogey about the whole affair. It seemed like everyone he knew had dates. He considered going drinking with Ohya so they could have a good old singles gripe together, but then Ryuji came back with a big tub of some seasonally-prized KFC—he must have stood in line forever to get it—and Akira decided to stay at home instead.

“Thanks for the chicken!” Akira said, sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table in the living room, making shameless grabby hands.

“Who said you're getting any?” Ryuji replied, but he clearly didn't mean that, as he plopped the takeaway down on the table so they could both dig in. Like a cheapo, he hadn't bought any drinks to go with it, so Akira dashed off to the kitchen to get whatever was in the fridge. There were a couple spare cans of beer there from the last time they'd had company, so Akira brought them over, and they scarfed down their chicken in silence for a while.

Ryuji took a swig of beer, burped, then, as if he'd just realized he'd forgotten, said, “Oh yeah, Merry Christmas.”

“Bah, humbug,” Akira muttered around his mouthful of chicken. His table manners always deteriorated when it was just him and Ryuji.

“Still don't have a date with Akechi, eh?”

“I'm not ever gonna have a date with Akechi because he doesn't want to see me in person.”

“You guys text every day, though.”

“That's what's so fucking frustrating about it. I don't get what his deal is.”

“You know,” Ryuji pointed out, pointing a chicken leg at him, “maybe he has a boyfriend, and he just doesn't want to see you in real life, 'cause then it'll count as cheating. Or shit, maybe he even has a beard.”

“Eh…” Akira didn't really get that impression, though he really only had vague feelings to go off. “He's said he has hookups with strangers.”

“Standard closeted shit.”

“You've got a point.” Akira took a big bite of chicken and chewed thoughtfully. “But I don't think he's with someone. He texts me too often. An S.O. would notice that. I think it's something else.” He shook his head. “I don't know.”

“You know, sometimes, you just gotta take people at their word. If he says he doesn't want to see you, but you wanna see him…maybe you should just give up. He's not gonna give you what you want.”

“Trust me, I've had that thought already. And since when have you become a relationship guru?” Akira teased.

“I've been watching you fuck your way around Tokyo since we were sixteen, man,” Ryuji said dryly. “I'm not a relationship guru. I'm an Akira guru.”

“If you're _so_ wise,” Akira leaned on the table, the can of beer he'd downed making his lips a little looser that usual, “then why are _you_ single on Christmas?”

The shaming did not have the desired effect. Ryuji wasn't even bothered. “I'm single 'cause I wanna be. I have lots of shit going on in my life right now.”

“You sure you're not just still hung up on me?” Akira teased.

Ryuji's reaction to that remark was somewhere between embarrassed and exasperated. “Just how big is your ego? Agh. I don't wanna date you, okay?”

“Uh-huh.” Akira leered at him. “ _Sure._ ”

“You're such an asshole,” Ryuji muttered as he finished off his beer, but there wasn't any venom in it. “You just get away with it 'cause you have a big dick.”

“Aaaand the truth comes out: Ryuji is pining for the D!”

“Oh, I think you're the one pining for _my_ dick,” Ryuji shot back with a smirk.

“It's a good dick, I won't deny it.”

“Pining for the D.”

“Just how big is _your_ ego?” Akira parroted back at him.

“Not as big as yours.”

“Are you talking about egos, now, or dicks?”

“Fuck you, man.”

Akira just laughed, then went silent for a bit. “Thanks, though. For dealing with my shit.”

“'Bout time I got some thanks. I should get paid for this.” Ryuji was grinning at him, though.

“I could pay you in blowjobs?”

“You give those out for free, you slut.”

“Touche. But want a free blowjob?”

x x x

Once Akira had sucked off Ryuji and had the favor returned, he was feeling much less miserable about Christmas, and in the head space to text Akechi something that wasn't either whining or angry accusations. He was in his comfy sweats and lying on his back in bed, Morgana curled up at his feet and purring in that forceful and hypnotic way that always made Akira sleepy, for some reason. He was in a good mood.

His cell phone screen was still cracked—a reminder of of his semi-recent fit of anger. Maybe he should tape that.

So, something simple to start. **Merry Christmas!**

 **Merry Christmas,** Akechi replied.

**Hot date tonight?**

**Haha, no.**

**Writing, then?**

**Yes, actually. I'm sort of behind schedule. I do have deadlines, after all.**

**Behind schedule! I assumed you were the more on-the-ball type.**

**I was busy with a lot of last-minute edits to my last book. My editor was about ready to murder me for all the additions, but she agreed it improved the book.**

Akira rolled over to his side, smushing his face against the pillow. **Your last book? So wait, do you mean Red Traitor?** That was the title of the next book that was coming out in a few months.

**Yes, I finished the original draft months ago, but then it went through editing, and I was making changes down to the wire.** **In publishing, we have a saying: “hurry up and wait.” Everyone's in a rush, and yet it takes forever for anything to get done. It's rather exhausting.**

**Do you like it, though?**

**Of course I like it,** Akechi answered immediately. **Writing fiction is great. You get paid to make up lies.**

**I suppose you think you're a pretty good liar, then.**

**I'm a great liar.**

Akira's mouth twisted, just looking at that message. **I know you're a liar.**

**I suppose it takes one to know one.**

He needed to change the subject, now. **Anyway, it's Christmas. A day for lovers! At least send me a picture of…you eating Christmas cake, or something.**

 **We're not lovers,** Akechi replied without hesitation.

 **We could pretend to be, if you wanted,** Akira typed, feeling daring. **Since you're such a great liar.**

**What makes you think I want to pretend that?**

**Everything.** Akira pushed himself up in bed, tense as he hunched over his phone. **I told you, I know you're a liar. Just pretend we're going on a date to KFC, holding hands and kissing over fried chicken.**

**I'd never do any of that in public.**

**I said this is pretend.** Akira's fingers were pressing too hard on the screen. He was making the cracks spread.

**Well, you're not a very good writer.**

**Then why don't you write me a story?**

**I already have.**

Akira stopped and stared at his phone for a solid minute. **What do you mean?**

But as he expected, Akechi didn't reply.

x x x

On New Year's, Akira suggested they go to the shrine for hatsumode, and as expected, Futaba refused. Well, it was going to be crowded as hell, no arguing that. With some wheedling, he managed to convince her that it would be fun to put on the kimono that she owned but never wore and just walk out in the direction of the local shrine to look at it from the park a couple blocks away. Of course, Ryuji and Yusuke would be coming, and they invited Ann and Mishima, too, but Mishima apparently was going to be with his family, so it was just the five of them.

Ryuji didn't own any decent clothes, unsurprisingly, so he was the only one of their group wearing Western clothing and looking like a tool as they stepped out of the Sakura residence, where they'd met up.

“Since when did you own a kimono, Akira?!” Ryuji demanded, incredulous.

“I just bought one,” Akira replied with a shrug. He spun around to show off his rather spiffy red-and-black affair, geta included. “I figured everyone should have one.”

“I agree,” said Yusuke, as they all strolled toward the park. “There's something to be said for traditional wear.”

“Hear, hear!” Futaba said, raising a fist to emphasize her enthusiastic agreement while wiping the line of drool trailing out the corner of her mouth with the other. She'd been ogling Yusuke the moment he'd arrived all dressed up. Well, he did look particularly great in Japanese clothing, for some reason.

“I think we all know your interest in traditional clothing isn't exactly pure,” Akira commented dryly.

Ann giggled. “That's fine, right? You don't get to wear this sort of thing every day, so it's more…exciting.” She shared a look with Futaba, beside her, who was nodding vigorously. “Look at you, enjoying fancy clothes! Am I turning you into a normie?” She gave Futaba a playful jab with her elbow.

“I think I'm a long way from that…” Futaba muttered, but she was blushing.

When they got to the park, Akira made a token effort to encourage Futaba to try going to the shrine, but she firmly said no, and Akira dropped it. So Yusuke agreed to hang out with her in the park for a bit while Ann, Ryuji and Akira went to visit the shrine.

“Agh, shit…” Ryuji moaned as they approached the shrine, and Akira quickly saw what was causing him such grief. The neighborhood police were monitoring the area, just keeping an eye on the crowds, and among them was Ryuji's personal reaper, Makoto Nijima.

Akira waved at her with a smile.

“Oi! What're you doing?!” Ryuji hissed, but Akira ignored him, trotting up to Makoto, geta clacking.

“Hey, Officer Makoto! I haven't seen you in so long,” he greeted her smoothly.

She blinked, then immediately blushed, her eyes travelling down the front of Akira's sloppily-open kimono. “Oh, Akira. Well, you know. Work keeps me busy.” She tucked her hair behind her ear in a habitual gesture. “And hello, Sakamoto,” she said, her tone not at all friendly as she shot Ryuji a glare. “Oh. And Takamaki. I haven't seen you in a long time.” Ann and Makoto shared a look that was rather uncomfortable, but it only lasted a moment.

Sensing the awkwardness, Akira decided to break things up fast. “I'll try not to bother you too much while you're working. But I'll text you. We should hang out again, soon.” He gave her a brilliant smile, and was rewarded with another blush.

“See you soon, Akira. Try not to get into trouble.” Makoto shot another look at Ryuji, who was giving her his best delinquent _I-don't-give-a-fuck_ glare, hands belligerently in his pockets.

Once they were on shrine grounds and Makoto was out of earshot, Akira asked Ann, “You two know each other?”

“The three of us all went to school together,” Ann told him. “Makoto Nijima was the President of the Student Council.”

“Basically, the administration's pet dog,” Ryuji spat. “She never wanted to believe teachers could ever be the bad guys.”

“Come on, Ryuji. I don't think she knew anything about Kamoshida,” Ann said, placating him. But Akira could tell she didn't much like Makoto, either.

“Doesn't matter,” Ryuji shook his head. “People like that will always suck up to authority. They care more about their own position than justice.”

“I don't think Makoto's like that,” Akira countered. “She's not that naive. She just believes in working within the system.”

“Fuck the system,” Ryuji shot back, and Ann laughed.

“There is something emotionally appealing about burning it all down,” she agreed, with the sort of aggressive look in her eye that Akira wouldn't initially have expected from her.

The three of them waited in line for quite a while to pray, ring the bell and dump some coins into the offertory box, then went to get fortunes.

“What'd you get?” Akira asked Ryuji first.

“Minor fortune,” he said with a nod. “I can live with that.”

“I got great fortune! Woo!” Ann showed off her strip of paper to them. “I don't think I've ever gotten that before!” She pumped a victory fist. “What about you, Akira?”

Akira unrolled his fortune. “Great misfortune…”

“Oh, shit,” Ryuji craned over to look at his paper. “I didn't even think you could actually get that.”

“Aw, well, it's all just for fun anyway, right?” Ann said. “Nothing bad's actually gonna happen to you…probably,” she added, with some doubt.

Ann wanted to buy a charm, but the line-up was really long. She and Ryuji got in line, and they ended up standing around chatting together about people Akira didn't know and things that didn't really involve him, so he gave them a wave and said he was heading back to the park, and they said they'd follow once they made it through the line.

Approaching the park, Akira saw Yusuke and Futaba sitting on the swings, backs facing him. It looked like they were talking. Akira paused, feeling perhaps that he shouldn't intrude. He sensed things had been awkward between them since they'd exposed Madarame's deeds to the press. Ohya had positively salivated when they had handed her the recording (with anything that would incriminate them cut out, of course), and it had gone viral online. Madarame's reputation had been crushed, and he hadn't been seen in public since.

Of course, Ohya, who had published it on her own small news blog, had made a risky move, knowing the kind of figures who lurked behind Madarame. But Ohya was always prepared for risk, in her line of work.

Akira could just barely hear Futaba and Yusuke talking.

“…become just like him… I'm so fixated on the money, the exposure…” he heard Yusuke saying.

“You're not like him,” Futaba insisted. “You're the victim, here. And he's a crook. He's a bad guy.”

Yusuke shook his head. “He may have done some bad things, but he's done more good for me than anyone else ever has. He's been a father to me.”

“Yusuke, actually…”

Akira's heart hammered in his chest. She was _not_ going to spill everything to her boyfriend—was she? Yusuke was a good guy, but Akira didn't trust him to keep the kind of secrets they had. And more importantly, he didn't want Futaba trusting Yusuke. They couldn't afford that. Futaba was so bad at keeping secrets, but _Akira_ was supposed to be the one she always babbled to—

“Hey,” Akira strode toward them, interrupting their conversation. The both of them turned around to look at him. “Ann and Ryuji are in line to get charms,” he explained. “It's probably best you didn't come, though, Futaba, that place is packed. The lines are awful.”

Futaba had a bit of a complicated expression. “Yeah, I wouldn't be able to handle it.”

“Maybe next year,” Yusuke said kindly, and she smiled at him.

Akira forced his own smile to stay up.

x x x

It was about a month before Futaba gathered all the information they needed to move in on Kaneshiro. He was an experienced mobster, and expected rivals to be after his life, and so took necessary precautions. He always had guards on him, and it was very hard to learn about his schedule.

But eventually, Futaba came up with their opportunity. He was going to a Valentine's party, of all things, some kind of fancy, high-society event where he could show off his money and pretend to be legitimate.

Before D-day, Akira decided to go visit Iwai to get some extra firepower.

Iwai was, on the surface, just the owner of a model gun shop. Akira had happened to be witness to some of his backdoor dealings with gang connections, and had agreed to keep his mouth shut as long as Iwai was willing to sell him some of the goods, too. Iwai had agreed, though very grudgingly, and never asked what Akira was using his goods for.

When Akira walked into the shop, Iwai just looked at him. Iwai had the permanently intimidating air of someone with a history of violence. He was fairly sure Iwai didn't much like him.

Akira liked Iwai, however. He leaned on the counter and greeted Iwai with a grin. “Is that the way to greet your best customer?” he teased.

Iwai just grunted. “I'm not sure I'd call ya that.”

“Your most special customer, then.”

“I ain't callin' ya that.”

Akira laughed. “I just can't get enough of your grumpy face. Frown at me more, Iwai.”

Iwai's face froze in an awkward position, as if he realized more scowling would just give Akira what he wanted. “Whaddaya want?”

Akira shrugged. “Just something small and discreet. Quiet. _Specially modified._ ” That was their code for _real._

Iwai narrowed his eyes at him. “You're lucky I've got an order on its way now. Come back on Thursday and I'll have what you want.”

“Thanks, Iwai,” Akira said, but he continued browsing around the store, looking at the models and things. He liked fake guns, too.

Iwai's eyes never left Akira, the whole time he was in the store. He was suspicious as fuck, wasn't he? Akira just had to say something. “Are you checking me out, or what?” Akira shot over his shoulder as he examined the MRE vending machine. He considered buying one. He kinda liked the taste of some of them, and at least they were easy to prepare. Ryuji thought they were disgusting.

Iwai just snorted. “Just keepin' an eye on you.”

“I'm not gonna steal your MRE's,” Akira commented dryly, not turning around.

“That ain't what I'm worried about.”

“You think I'm a sketchy character?”

“I _know_ you're a sketchy character.”

Akira turned around to see Iwai leaning back in his chair, boots propped up on the counter. He had a magazine in his lap, but wasn't looking at it. They were the only ones in the store. “What sort of person do you think I am?” Akira asked him, curiously.

Iwai's eyes shifted down to his magazine, but Akira didn't believe he was looking at it. He licked his finger and turned a page. Akira's eyes couldn't help but be drawn to his tongue. Iwai was completely unaware of his own sex appeal, and it drove Akira crazy. In a good way.

“You're not with anyone I know,” Iwai said flatly. “That makes you dangerous.”

“Better the devil you know?”

“Uh-huh.”

Akira decided to ask a more direct question. “You're not connected to Kaneshiro, are you?”

Iwai snorted. “Fuck no. Who do ya think I am?”

“Good,” Akira replied. “It's a bad idea to be close to him right now.”

Iwai's eyes shot up and connected with Akira's. The look there was probably enough to make most people hand over their wallet and run, but it just made Akira shiver. In a good way.

“If you keep giving me bedroom eyes, I'm gonna start getting hot and bothered, here,” he said with a grin. Iwai gave him a blank look. “See you on Thursday, Iwai.” Akira waved, and walked out of the store.

x x x

Less than a week later, Akira was back for his gun. Iwai brought it to him in a model gun box, the price marked up for “special modifications.”

“Just what ya asked for,” Iwai said, and Akira paid him in cash—which Iwai tucked in his pocket rather than ring through the till.

“Thanks, gun daddy,” Akira replied, enjoying, as always, the blank look that was Iwai's reaction to being flirted with.

Iwai gave an exasperated sigh. “I just can't figure you out.”

“Mystery is sexier,” Akira replied as he took his gun box in his hands. “But I promise I'm the good kind of mysterious.”

Iwai grunted. “Sure.” His tone dripped skepticism.

“I'll see you again, Iwai,” Akira said as he left the store. “And here's your tip.” He blew the gun man a kiss.

x x x

And so this was how Akira ended up in the living room of an empty condo in a fancy apartment building in Azabu, a good thirty stories up. It was dark out, but this neighborhood was well-lit enough that it wouldn't be a problem. His rifle was set up in its stand, and he was looking out the window through his binoculars, trying to see what was going on in the building just across the way and a little ways down the street. He was looking through the wide bay windows into the penthouse suite, where there was clearly some big party going on. There were tons of figures in the windows. It was crowded.

“Hmm…” Futaba said in his ear. “His cell phone signal says he's up there.”

“It's too crowded,” Akira told her. “I can see him fine. But I'll shoot right through him and hit whoever's behind him. I told you this would happen.”

Futaba sighed. “Plan B, then…”

Akira heard Ryuji groan. “I don't like plan B.”

“No whining, Skull,” Futaba told him. “This isn't even dangerous for you. If you get caught, you'll get slapped on the wrist for mischief, at most.”

“And breaking and entering!” Ryuji protested.

“Not even. Just slip in behind someone else as they walk into the building, and if anyone asks, you're just going to the party. And if they get suspicious, just pretend to be drunk. Your face gets all pink in the cold to begin with, anyway! You'll fool 'em for sure!” Futaba seemed certain, but Akira was not nearly as confident as she was in Ryuji's acting ability.

“Yeah, yeah…” Ryuji was grumbling, but before long, Akira saw him through his binoculars, walking along down the street below, heading for the ritzy apartment building where the big Valentine's party was going on.

Ryuji didn't have to wait long. Some people dressed for a fancy party approached the doors, carelessly chatting together, and didn't even notice when Ryuji walked in the doors behind them. There was a good chance they were already drunk.

Immediately, Akira went to adjust the rifle stand so the barrel pointed down toward ground level, zeroing the sights to a greater distance, adjusting his aim to a specific spot at ground level, right in front of the apartment doors. Shooting from this many stories up, he had to set the stand practically pointing straight down and shoot from a standing position. It was a little awkward, but at least it meant that his bullet would go through the target and into the ground, rather than into someone else.

But it was windy, and the wind was stronger up here than it was down there. He didn't have perfect confidence in the shot. And with this sort of thing, you generally didn't get a second chance.

“You ready, Joker?” Futaba asked him.

“Ready as I'll ever be.”

Akira heard the ringing down the street when Ryuji pulled the fire alarm. About thirty seconds later, Ryuji said, “I made sure the back entrance is jammed. He's gotta come out the front.”

“Good job, Skull. Go back to your bike!” said Futaba.

“Already going.”

Before long, people started coming out the doors. Being on the top floor, Kaneshiro was bound to be one of the last to evacuate. Akira waited.

“His phone signal's coming down the elevator,” Futaba said. “Doesn't that idiot know you're supposed to take the stairs if there's a fire?”

“Quiet, Oracle,” Akira said. He needed to concentrate. Futaba shut up.

Akira took deep, even breaths, the gun cradled in his arms, his stance even and firm. He wasn't thinking about anything anymore but his line of sight and the trigger under his finger.

He saw Kaneshiro come forward, behind the glass doors of the apartment. His size made him an easier target, which was something to be thankful for, at least. The automatic doors slid open. He was in motion, but not walking fast. He took one step. Two steps—

Akira was exhaling, the bang echoing in his ears as his finger continued to pull back through the recoil, and the bullet was already through the window and buried in Kaneshiro's chest, and even from this distance, he could see the bloody hole he'd made. He followed up with a second shot to ensure the kill, and a third for good measure. Then he just stood there for a moment, breathing and staring through the sights at the scene he'd created. Some people were screaming. Bulky, black-suited figures that looked like bodyguards were looking all around, looking down at the body to determine the source of the shots. They looked to be talking on headsets. One of them looked up into the sky, not far from where Akira was stationed. He pointed up. The men scattered, running off in various directions.

“I think…I better run,” Akira said, and he jerked back from his rifle, turning around. He wasn't sure if he had time to break down the gun. It hurt, but he'd have to abandon it. He ran for the door, then closed it carefully and strode toward the elevator as if he belonged there. It was best to pretend to be a normal resident of the building, to avoid suspicion.

As Akira was riding down the elevator, he heard Ryuji said, “Uh…I'm on my bike, and there's a couple guys coming my way. They look…mobby.” He sounded nervous.

“Just stay where you are,” Futaba told him. “Act like just some normal guy on his bike. Pretend like you're trying to set your clock or something! Just act normal.”

“Okay…” Ryuji sounded antsy.

Akira wanted the damn elevator to move faster. “I'll be there in a minute.”

The next thing Akira heard from Ryuji was the sound of him talking to someone else. “Huh? Me? No…what's your deal? I live here! Shit—hey!” A crashing sound.

When the doors came open, Akira dashed out of the elevator, dropping all pretense of being just another resident, bursting out the front doors of the apartment building to head straight for Ryuji, heart pounding. The parked cars in the rear parking lot obscured Ryuji's bike from view. He couldn't see Ryuji.

Akira swung around a parked truck and saw Ryuji's bike knocked on its side, a man in a black suit holding Ryuji on the ground on his stomach. Akira didn't think—he just reacted. He pulled the suppressed handgun Iwai had sold him out from under his jacket, sliding off the safety as it came out, and shot the man in the chest—or rather, he meant to. Firing while running didn't really lend itself to accuracy, and the bullet hit the man in the shoulder. He jerked under the impact of his shot and his grip weakened, and Ryuji kicked him off, rolling out from under him.

“Get your bike up! I'll handle him!” Akira yelled at him.

“Roger,” Ryuji replied, sounding shaken, and dashed over to his fallen bike.

Akira stopped and planted his feet to make a proper two-handed shot, this time, as the man in the suit turned around to face him, his hand reaching into his own jacket, but he was too slow. Akira fired one, two more shots to the chest, at close enough range that Akira could see the look in his eyes when he dropped. Even after he was down, Akira took nothing for granted, striding up to him to fire one more shot into his head. He glanced around and saw no more immediate threats, so slid the safety back on and tucked his gun away.

Ryuji had hauled his bike up quickly with the practiced ease of someone who had laid his bike down about a million times before, and was waiting on it, Akira's helmet in his hands. Akira yanked out his ear piece, took the helmet, shoved it over his head, and hopped on the back. Ryuji didn't have to be told. He gunned it the fuck out of there.

As they drove away, out of the edge of his restricted vision, Akira thought he saw another man who looked like a bodyguard, but it didn't look like he was holding a gun, and he let them get away.

x x x

“Sometimes, you fucking scare me, man,” Ryuji grumbled as they rode back. “You're fucking stone-cold.”

“Is that what you say to the guy who just saved your life?”

“I dunno if he would've killed me…”

“He had a gun,” Akira said. “I saw him going for it. I wouldn't take that risk, anyway.”

“Thanks then…I guess.”

“C'mon,” Akira said playfully. “That was exciting, don't you think?”

He felt Ryuji's incredulous reaction in his grip around Ryuji's waist. “No! I was scared shitless!”

“You don't think I was badass? That didn't get your heart racing a little?” Akira's tone was teasing.

“My favorite part was when we were driving away really fast.”

“You're no fun.”

“And you're fucking crazy.”

“You guys are a walking buddy cop movie,” Futaba said through their headsets.

“No way would I fucking be a cop!” Ryuji barked, and Akira laughed.

Then he stopped laughing. “Uh, speaking of cops, Ryuji? You might wanna slow down.”

“Huh? Oh, you're fucking me…” Ryuji checked his mirror and saw what Akira had already noticed—a police bike on their tail, gesturing for them to pull over. “Fucking fuckity fuck,” Ryuji cursed, but pulled over as instructed.

The cop pulled over beside them and flipped up her visor to reveal—quite unsurprisingly—that it was indeed Makoto Nijima, Ryuji's personal reaper.

“New bike, Sakamoto?” she commented, pulling her clip board out from her rear luggage. “Looks like you've dropped it recently.” She eyed the fresh scratches on the side and the bent rear-view mirror, which Ryuji immediately reached over to adjust. They were riding their “other” bike. The one with a fake license plate. This was not good.

“Old bike,” Akira said, sliding off the motorcycle and pulling off his helmet. He did not trust Ryuji to talk, here, and Ryuji, wisely, clammed up. “Belongs to a friend of ours—we were just trying it out. Sometimes the retro stuff can be fun, you know?”

The look on Makoto's face softened when Akira approached her, but she held fast to her clipboard. “License and registration.”

“C'mon,” Akira said with a flirty grin. “Ryuji managed to go without a ticket for more than three months, just like we promised!”

“I can't keep making exceptions,” Makoto said firmly, but Akira could tell her resolve was wavering.

Akira sidled up to her, getting as close as he could without touching. “Aren't you already making exceptions?” he said, his voice just above a murmur. “The way you keep chasing us down all the time…I'm starting to think it's _me_ you're chasing after.”

Makoto went bright red, and stood up straighter in response, as if proper posture would hide her obvious bashfulness. “I'm just doing my job.”

“Is it really about that?” Akira's hand brushed over her shoulder as if he were flicking off some lint, and her head turned, eyes following his hand. “You always recognize me, even with all my gear and helmet on.”

“W-well, you're…rather recognizable.”

“I always recognize _you,_ the moment I see your police bike in the mirror,” Akira practically purred. “You dominate a motorcycle like no woman I've ever seen. When do I get to see you at another motorcycle rally?”

“Ah…not for…another few months…”

“That's _way_ too long to wait. Can't I see you earlier? I feel like it's been forever. You're always so busy. You don't have time for me?”

Behind him, out of the corner of his eye, Akira could see Ryuji's eyes practically bugging out of his head.

“I-I'm a pretty new officer, you know?” Makoto's hand went up to her head reflexively to tuck hair behind her ear, then smacked into the helmet she'd forgotten she was wearing. “And a woman. We have to work twice as hard.” Her smile turned a little melancholy. “I feel like I'm only starting to understand everything my sister went through.”

“You've got to give yourself a break, sometimes,” Akira said, sympathy in his eyes. “You don't want to burn yourself out this young! Let yourself rest and recharge once in a while. C'mon. Let me take you on a spa date. You look like you could use a massage.”

Makoto looked back at him with a little smile. “Maybe you're right. I can't even remember the last day I did absolutely nothing like work.”

“This Saturday good for you?”

“All right…sure.”

“Great! I'll see you then!” Akira pulled back and put his helmet back on. “You better not bail on me, like last time!” He hopped back on the bike, prodded Ryuji to get going with the hand out of Makoto's view, and waved at Makoto with the other one, and they rode away before she could even realize what had just happened.

“You're a fucking seduction god,” Ryuji said to him once they were out of sight.

“I know,” Akira said, feeling extremely smug.

x x x

“You're being paranoid,” Akira told Futaba. It was a few weeks after the successful hit on Kaneshiro.

“I'm not,” Futaba said as she bundled the equipment into his arms. They were in her room, and she was handing him boxes of stuff she'd ordered online and wanted him to set up in his apartment. It was security equipment—it would allow her to monitor his apartment from a distance. “I've been talking to Takemi, and I told her about the information we got from Madarame, and about the stuff Ohya told us. You know the guys I called _the crows?_ ” She licked her lips, then backed away to sit down in her chair, leaving Akira to stand there with his boxes. “I'm positive now it's just one guy. Just one super-badass assassin. And this guy has killed literally dozens and dozens of people. Probably more than we can guess. I have this place rigged to the rafters already. You guys need to be safe, in case he comes for you. I mean, I'm fairly sure we've covered our asses. But it's best to be cautious.”

“ _The crow_ , huh?” Akira looked at the boxes. “Who does he work for?”

Futaba looked uneasy. “I wanna talk about that with you and Ryuji soon. It's…a lot, Akira. Maybe too much for us.”

“Now you're really making me anxious.”

“You should be,” Futaba muttered. “Just…let me sort out a few things, first, and we'll have a serious meeting about it. But first—” she pointed at his boxes. “Go home and set that stuff up! Pronto!”

“Aye-aye, Captain.”

x x x

It was late in the evening—practically the middle of the night—when Akechi sent him a message. It was abrupt, unexpected, and sent Akira shooting up out of bed.

**I can't talk to you anymore. I'm sorry.**

Akira's hands on his phone shook. **What the fuck? This is sudden. Why??**

**I'm sorry. It's personal. Not your fault.**

**That's it?! That's all you're going to tell me??**

**I'm sorry it had to be this way. You deserve better.**

**What the fuck is that supposed to mean???!** Akira demanded, but no matter what he texted, Akechi wouldn't say anything after that.

x x x

Akira had been looking forward to the release of _Red Traitor,_ but by the time the release date rolled around, he wasn't really interested in reading it anymore.

He lay on his face on Futaba's bed, splayed out limply, while Futaba babbled on to him about how great the book was and how he just _had_ to read it. She was basically spoiling the shit out of it.

“Come _on,_ Akira!” Futaba prodded him with a bare toe. “So Akechi's a dick, so what! The books are still great! You love _Bloody Justice!_ And I'm not kidding when I tell you this is literally, LITERALLY the best book in the series. The forums are exploding right now. _Exploding like a Big Bang Burger!”_ She made a big boom gesture, with sound effects.

“I don't care,” Akira said into the pillow. “I thought you invited me over to play games.”

“That was a ruse,” Futaba admitted readily. “Just read this book!” She whacked the back of his head with the book, but Akira didn't even flinch. “Ngh, the Osato/Sana is laid on so thick in this book. He literally _pets her hair_ and is like, _good girl._ ”

Without even looking, Akira could tell she was drooling. “Don't care. I hate that ship.”

“Okay, yeah, I know, but it's dripping Sana/Akai, too! They! Fuck! In! This! Book!” She emphasized each word with a slap of the book on the back of his head. Akira didn't budge.

Futaba sighed. He heard the sound of her opening the book. She was going to do another dramatic reading of it, wasn't she?

“ _Akai stepped close to me—too close. He knew where my boundaries were, and he knew he was breaking them. 'Have you ever been in love?' he said, tone teasing._

_'I don't see how that's even relevant,' I replied._

_'You basically just admitted that you've never been in love. And at your age, too! I think I need to stage an intervention.'_

_'Oh, please,' I shot back. 'And what would you even do?'_

_'This,' he said, and leaned in to press a kiss to my lips. He was gentle, but insistent as he_ —”

Akira shot up off the bed. “What? Does it actually say that? Give me that book.”

Futaba blinked at him, clearly surprised at his sudden interest after the last hour of his resistance. “Yeah. Of course. Here.”

Akira grabbed the book from her and went over the passage she'd just read out to him. That was what it said. What? He couldn't believe it. He read it again. Then he flipped back to the first page and started from the beginning.

“I told you the Sana/Akai was serious…” Futaba muttered, but Akira wasn't even listening to her anymore. Eventually, she turned away to entertain herself with her computer as it became apparent Akira was completely focused on the book.

The general thrust of the long-anticipated _Red Traitor_ was Osamu Osato, the series' overarching villain, was going to orchestrate a mega-plot to take over the the country and rule it from the underworld as a criminal mastermind, and Sana Seigi—rather than opposing him—decided that it was in the nation's best interests of Osamu Osato took power. Akagi Akai, her longtime partner, for the first time ever, took a stand against her—while simultaneously confessing his love to her.

The entire book was a gut punch. Like this scene.

_'You won't trust me, will you?' Akai said, and it stung that he knew. I'd lived under the illusion that I was putting up a good act for so long, I felt naked when he ripped it all down._

_'You know I don't trust anyone,' I replied._

_'I know. But I wanted to be the exception.'_

Or this scene.

_'I would totally make all your fantasies come true if you let me, Boss,' Akai said with a grin, as if it were just a joke. But I knew he was being sincere. All his jokes were sincere. That was why I had to turn him down._

_'This is enough for me,' I told him with a smooth smile. Another lie._

Or this scene.

_It had to be the blood loss making him lightheaded. Akai would never have said anything like it, otherwise. He clutched at the bullet wound in his shoulder, and his jacket was turning red as he leaned on me and said, 'You're the only person in my life I feel like I can count on.'_

_His words were a knife to the gut. He'd chosen the wrong woman to trust._

Or this scene.

_'Tell me how bad you want it,' he whispered in my ear, his chest pressed against my back, arms wrapped tight around me._

_I hated that I did want it, hated that I would humiliate myself to feel his embrace. He turned my head with his hand, and I knew he was trying to see my face. I closed my eyes. I wouldn't, couldn't look at him. Why did he have to rip this out of me? I wished I didn't want this. I wished I could stop wanting anything. This was just another way for someone to take control of my life, another tool of power. He had so much power over me, and I'd never agreed to any of it. I wouldn't bend to him._

Or this scene.

_Then he turned me around and I lay on my back on the bed, covered in sweat, heart still racing under his hands. I'd avoided looking at him this whole time. I didn't want to give him more than I already had. If I gave him any more than this, I would never get it back._

_Akai looked down at me, and the look in his eyes was so kind, I knew if he were to ask me in that moment, I would tell him everything. I would confess the whole plot to him. Every single secret, every single lie—it would gush out of me like pus from a wound and I would be completely ruined._

_But he didn't ask. So I didn't say anything. And I knew I would never get this with him again._

At some point, Akira realized he was crying, and he staggered off the bed, mumbling, “I have to go to the bathroom,” keeping his voice as even as possible. He could hear the sound of Futaba's chair turning around to look as he left her room, but he made sure she couldn't see his face.

He went down the hall and into the bathroom, locking the door behind him to sit on the toilet and continue reading the book to the end. His whole body was trembling.

Was this what Akechi had meant? Was _this_ what he had fucking meant?

“This is fucking cheating,” he muttered, pressing his forehead against the book. “You're not allowed to do this. You're not _allowed_ to cut me off and then do _this._ ” One line in particular scorched in his mind. He couldn't stop thinking about it.

_I loved Akagi Akai. But I needed Osamu Osato._

Hands shaking, Akira texted Akechi.

**Who is Osamu Osato? Tell me. Please. I need to know who your Osamu Osato is.**

He didn't get a reply. He didn't expect it. He pressed the call button, but immediately got, _The phone you are trying to dial is either powered off or out of range…_

“Fuck!” Akira threw his phone at the floor, and now the screen was definitely broken beyond repair. The cracks webbed over the whole thing, making it completely unusable.

He covered his face in his hands and sobbed.

 


	8. The Hand That Feeds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The soundtrack for this chapter is Nine Inch Nails. The Hand that Feeds, and Only. Sorta waffled on which would be the title. I suddenly got on a binge of listening to old NIN songs. Closer is another relevant one. 
> 
> Also: I've recently been informed that anything Shido/Akechi is a fandom hotbutton, so uh... you've been warned. This chapter will probably be the only smut scene with them, tho.
> 
> I've been heavily hinting at it since chapter 1, so I hope no one is too blindsided.
> 
> Shido is such an underdeveloped character, he's hard as fuck to write. You only ever see like, his political face, and then you see his villain side, which is all grandiose self-importance. What is Shido like when he eats his breakfast in the morning? Aie. I went back to re-write some of his lines because I think I made him too nice.

 

It hadn't been a singular turning point, but rather a slow, gradual realization that it was all his own fault. Goro Akechi was to blame.

It was so much easier to blame the world. He'd been doing it his whole life, after all. It was the institutions, his foster parents, the other kids at school, or the teachers. And then there was the ultimate scapegoat: Shido. Everything was Shido's fault—or easy to make Shido's fault.

It wasn't a comfortable realization. His books made the realization long before he was willing to. His books were the only decent thing to come out of his life.

He'd started writing at a fairly young age—natural enough for someone who had no one but books for friends—but he'd first gotten the idea for the _Bloody Justice_ series in high school. He'd studied his ass off to get into a private school on scholarship, desperate to turn himself into something worthwhile. He'd moved into his own apartment. But before he could even come close to finishing his first year, it became clear— _painfully_ clear—that he just could not do it. He couldn't stay at the top of the class in every subject. He couldn't make all the teachers like him. He couldn't make _any_ of the students like him, not really. He couldn't bring himself to even attend any clubs. He couldn't cook. He couldn't budget. He couldn't pay his utilities on time. The list of _couldn'ts_ just got longer and longer and longer, and faking it became more and more of a struggle, until one day he just _couldn't_ bring himself to go to school anymore.

All of this, he had told himself then, was not his fault. It was _their_ fault for making him this way.

Sana Seigi was born from this sort of misplaced sense of being wronged and a desire for retribution. It had been a necessary fantasy at the time. He probably would have killed himself, otherwise.

So he lost everything he'd worked for and was shunted back into the institution, whereupon it was suggested to him that he attend a high school in Kanagawa that would pay his living expenses. It was a school that prepared you not for university, but for the military.

This was not an interest or ambition Goro had ever once held in his life, but it had seemed like a reasonable decision at the time. The military was an avenue through which people “ _like him”_ (their words) could get an education. So be it. He would do it.

That school was hell.

He'd believed that regular school was hell and certain foster families he'd lived with had been hell, but it turned out he'd been naive. None of those had really been all that bad. Attending what was for all intents and purposes a boy's school with a militaristic approach to order was on a whole other level. At this school, there was no choice, no backing out, no way to exclude yourself. And the internal hierarchy of the school was based purely on physical dominance. Being _smart_ wouldn't get you far. Everyone was there because they were too stupid, too brutish, and too poor to be somewhere else. And everyone there, to some degree or another, believed in the fundamental principle that _might makes right._

The social role he'd spent years cultivating was worse than useless in this environment. But he couldn't be anyone else. And there was no way out. Goro was a little too pretty, a little too effeminate, and he could try to choke it down all he tried, but he would always stick out.

He saw it as somewhat inevitable, then, when another boy had approached him aggressively for oral sex. Goro had acquiesced to it with the sense that this was yet something else that he just had to get through, and well, it wasn't as if he hadn't thought about it, himself. He told the other boy to keep his mouth shut about it, and he sucked the boy off behind the school in an out-of-the-way alcove.

But that boy did not keep his mouth shut about it.

Before long, another one was approaching him. And another one. Goro went through them mechanically. There weren't any girls around, so Goro was the next best thing, apparently. Some of them said basically that, the sort of paper-thin self-defense of _I'm not gay or anything_ that Goro could never say himself, not plausibly. And maybe they weren't. Maybe he was just a convenient hole. And that became his reputation: the convenient hole of the school. As reputations went, it was marginally better than _that orphan kid._ At least now nobody could say he was unwanted. _Aha. Ha. Ha._

After graduating, he enlisted, more out of momentum than anything else—this was just another choice made for him. And he half-expected things to continue like that in service, too—but for some reason, it didn't. Maybe it was because the guys were older, a little more mature, a little more circumspect. Maybe it was because those years of getting the shit beaten out of him had taught Goro how to project a proper _don't fuck with me_ aura.

And it was only then that he realized that he _missed_ it. All that time, he'd been doing it not because he was forced into it, but because he'd wanted to, because all the taunts, the dirty talk, the hands shoving him down, the dicks pushed into his throat and his ass, the gropes, the need, the humiliation and the attention got him hard, and he would do it again and again and again, even if he knew every single one of them looked at him like trash, because at least they were looking at him.

But he couldn't volunteer himself for that. He couldn't seek it out. It had been hell. Just, it had been the sort of hell that he wanted for himself.

Goro didn't last long in the military. Close to two years in, someone had started shit with him—not anyone important or particularly awful, just another figure in a long list of aggressors—and Goro simply snapped. Goro beat that guy to an unacceptable degree, enjoying the crunch of impact, the blood on his knuckles as he held him down and hit him again and again until two other guys pulled him off. Everything about it had been so entirely satisfying. He'd never much enjoyed fighting back in high school, but perhaps that had been because he'd so often been the loser. Being the winner put it all in a very different light. It felt good. It felt really good. And Goro didn't regret it one bit.

He probably would've gotten away with it if he'd been a well-liked person, but he was not, and so one dishonorable discharge larger, Goro was out in the cold, and this time, he truly had nothing. It was only at this point that he realized how kind the institution had been, and even as he'd believed no one had cared about him, there clearly had been people who had given a shit, at one point in time, people who had put a roof over his head and food on his plate. Now that he was an adult, he really and truly was on his own.

At this point, Goro was left with two options: suicide, or revenge against the progenitor of his whole miserable life. He wasn't sure if he was angry at Shido for giving him life or for fucking it up. Either was just as bad, really. With a little more time and distance, he was now aware that he'd just used Shido as a voodoo doll to beat with every negative emotion he'd built up since the age of ten. He'd just needed somebody to hate—and Shido fulfilled that role beautifully.

And so, with the memory of the pleasure of physical dominance still fresh in his mind, revenge seemed like the more appealing option. And if he blew it, he could always just kill himself. That escape route was the comfort that allowed him to take risks that he would otherwise have been incapable of taking—because he didn't care about the consequences. He would make himself necessary to Shido, let Shido taste success, then tear it all away from him so he could say, _you're nothing without me._

Just like Goro was nothing.

A certain political rival of Shido's who was also well-known for a string of _indiscretions_ that he had gotten away with was Goro's first target. His record made it easy for Goro to rationalize that this was the right thing to do. This was the metaphorical head that he would carry to Shido to prove what he was capable of. Goro came in through an open window on ground level at night, found him in bed, asleep, and strangled him with a rope, then hanged him up in his home to make it look like a suicide. It had been a thrill. It had felt good.

It had been surprisingly easy, too. It was surprisingly easy to kill people, and surprisingly easy to get away with it.

And equally surprisingly, that was enough for Shido.

Shido paid him well. And suddenly, Goro had his own place—a _nice_ place, and enough money to dress how he wanted, eat out every day, and waste what he would. All he had to do for it was hit the list of targets Shido provided for him. That proved to be easy for Goro. He had an innate talent for this sort of thing, clearly.

It was also easy to justify it to himself, to tell himself it was about doing the right thing. Goro had always been a great liar.

The very night after his first kill, Goro returned to the capsule hotel where he was staying with his last remaining savings, pulled out his old notebooks filled with writing, and began to beat the story into what became the _Bloody Justice_ series. He didn't have any concrete thoughts of getting published at the time. In retrospect, it had clearly all been an emotional attempt at self-justification and wish fulfillment. He made the hero a woman so that he could tell himself it wasn't a self-insert, that it wasn't all about himself, and he made himself believe that lie for years. He made her live his childhood dream of becoming a detective, made her live his fantasy of justified revenge against a corrupt world, and gave her the love of the sort of idealized man that Goro knew didn't exist in real life but couldn't help but desperately want.

By some wild fluke, it just turned out that Goro's private fantasies would sell millions of copies. A few years later, and he had everything he thought he'd never have. He had respect, fame, money, the love of his fans—and he'd _earned_ it. A couple years in, after the success of his early books, he had enough to comfortably support himself, even without the money he got from Shido.

He'd never planned for this. He'd never meant for any of it to happen. Success had come to Goro too late for him to really believe it, to really accept it. He kept waiting for someone to pull the rug out from under him and expose him as a fraud, but it never happened. With every new kill under his belt, he expected to be found out and arrested, his face blown up on TV the next day, but it never happened. He kept waiting for everything to fall apart, but it didn't.

It was at this point, when, for the first time, he was feeling some real freedom to do what he pleased in life, that he realized that it was all his fault—not only everything now, but the past, too. He'd spent his whole life turning to point the finger at the world for making him miserable, but now, the world was being kind to him. The world had given him fame and fortune, but he still felt like shit. And it was all his fault.

Every kill was his fault.

His unhappiness was his fault.

Shido's rise to power was his fault.

His own isolation was his fault.

Every lie he told was his fault.

A lifetime of believing that it was _their_ fault he was unwanted morphed into the realization that it was in fact Goro who had made himself unwanted, Goro who had been aggressively driving away all connection, friendship, attempts to help, and any goodwill shown to him. There had been caretakers who had shown kindness, who had tried to reach out to him. There had been children in the institutions who shared his struggle, who had tried to look to him for help or empathy. There had been kids in every school he'd gone to who had shown him shy smiles, said hi to him in the hallways, who had been outcasts, like him. But he'd been so occupied with himself, so occupied with his own misery, that he had never once noticed anyone else, had assumed rejection before even saying hello. He'd spent his whole life angry at everyone else for never noticing his pain, only to realize now that he was just as guilty for never noticing anyone else's.

Adulthood was a bitter pill to swallow.

Then he got an email from someone calling himself “Joker.” A fan. Goro got plenty of fan mail, but generally, said fan mail did not involve elaborate dick pic pranks. He couldn't help but laugh. And when Joker had come on to him, he'd gone with it, just as he'd always gone with it when men approached him. He didn't deny that he wanted it. If this guy wanted a sexual outlet, Goro would be that for him.

But Joker also said he wanted to be Goro's friend, and Goro had panicked. No. If he'd been a teenager, he would have leaped on it. He would have pretended it was nothing, and probably made himself believe it was nothing, too, as he maintained their casual friendship—or what he would make himself believe for a time was a casual friendship, while he fantasized both about being together forever and also about shooting him in the head for making him feel this way, for making him feel so inadequate, until Goro was inevitably abandoned for being fucking crazy.

But now, he knew himself better. He knew he would become obsessed, and he had to nip that in the bud. Over the course of their first brief exchange, Goro had already found himself constructing an elaborate fantasy of who this man was and what their relationship would be, and the knowledge that things would never work out like that in real life was too crushing. Over text, Goro could keep up appearances. He could maintain some distance. And the more Joker revealed about himself, the more Goro saw himself in Joker's circumstances, the more he knew he could never, ever see this man in person, that he could never let Joker in on even an inkling of who he really was.

Maybe, if Goro had never chosen to offer his services to Shido, he would have been able to screw up his courage and meet Joker in person. Maybe he could have had the first real relationship of his life. Maybe he could have had just a taste of what it was like to be loved, even if he did end up getting dumped in the end. But probably not. And _certainly_ not with his life being what it was. He wasn't capable of becoming seriously involved with anyone, and he was bitingly aware of that fact.

And that brought him here, this evening, to Shido's apartment, where Shido was instructing him on his next target. Shido hated leaving a paper trail, and it would be too suspicious for Goro to visit him at his office. Most of their interactions were in person, at Shido's apartment.

Goro would rather have met him at his office.

Their arrangement had been going on for so many years, Shido had long since dropped any pretense of formality. Goro let himself in, as the door was open, put down his briefcase, slipped off his shoes, and walked in to the living room to find Shido in a robe, apparently fresh out of the bath, a glass of wine in one hand as he idly watched the evening news.

There had been a point in time when Goro had believed it just coincidence that Shido tended to call him over around the time of day just after his showers, but now, he knew it was deliberate. Did Shido notice the way Goro's eyes would follow the droplets of water that trailed down his neck? Maybe. Were Shido's offers of wine made with manipulative intentions? Probably. Did Shido know that Goro would go home after to beat off to the thought of Shido railing him violently? Almost certainly. Was Shido aware that Goro was his own son?

Definitely.

He was a manipulative piece of shit. This was just the kind of thing he did. Goro knew this better than anyone, so it was his own fault for letting himself be manipulated.

“Wine?” Shido offered, as usual, and as usual, Goro turned him down.

“Your next target will be a little different,” Shido told him, once Goro was seated in the lounge chair opposite him—his usual spot. Shido always skipped pleasantries with him, and Goro preferred it that way. “He's more dangerous. So that will be reflected in your compensation.”

Goro was intrigued. Over the years, assassination had become shockingly easy to him—practically mundane. Sickeningly mundane.

Shido gestured to the paper file folder on the coffee table, indicating that Goro should pick it up. This was Shido's standard method. He worked in paper, so it could be easily destroyed afterward.

Goro reached out to the file folder, picked it up, opened it, and his heart stopped.

Shido did not overlook this. “Someone you know?”

Goro never bothered lying to Shido. Not anymore. “Yes. I ran into him once. I'm quite surprised to see his face in your files.”

Shido's lips quirked in a smirk. “If you ran into him before, it may be he's been looking into you, just as we've looked into him.” He took a sip of his wine.

Goro's eyes skimmed over the file. There were three of photos on it—the poorest-quality one looked like it was zoomed in from a cell phone camera, a somewhat blurry shot of his face in a cold expression, turned to the side. In the background, you could see what looked to be the wheel of a motorcycle.

The second photo looked like it had been more deliberately and carefully taken, a candid photo of him in the street, smiling and talking to someone.

The third photo was older, and looked like it came from a military service record. His hair was cropped short, and he was facing straight into the camera.

The first page was labeled _Akira Kurusu._

Without being prompted, Shido explained, “He's the one who shot Kaneshiro. One of Kaneshiro's men got a picture of him as he was making his escape. From that point, the facial recognition task was quite easy, given that he's in the system.”

“The military database?” Goro asked, tone flat.

“And he has a criminal record, unsurprisingly.”

Goro flipped to the next page to see another photo—much younger—and an assault conviction. “Well, well, well,” Goro said, with a twisted grin. “Small world.”

“Isn't it?” Shido returned his grin. “It'll be satisfying to flush that piece of trash down the toilet.”

“So who is he working for?” Goro asked, flipping through the whole folder. “It doesn't say anything here.”

Shido shook his head. “My men have researched high and low, and they seem convinced he's operating alone—or at least, he's not working for any major players. He had a partner who helped him escape, but he was wearing a motorcycle helmet, and the plate on the bike went to a dead end. Ideally, I'd like you to question him, but if you kill him in the process, it's no disaster. I suspect he's just some crazy vet with a personal vendetta.”

“You don't think he's connected to any of the Kurohara L. hits?” Goro asked, eyes never leaving the file. The photos seemed to stare back at him. He turned to a page that was only text.

Shido looked thoughtful. “Kaneshiro has no overt ties to Kurohara L. But he's an idiot and he's constantly making himself enemies. He was going to get shot, sooner or later. Regardless,” he finished off his wine and placed the glass down on the coffee table, “I'd rather eliminate this shooter sooner rather than later, to avoid more expensive casualties. Finding a replacement funding source is going to be a pain.” Shido uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “But enough about work. I read your latest book, Goro,” he said with a grin.

Goro blinked, startled. “You did?”

“You think I don't read your books? I enjoy that sort of lowbrow entertainment, you know. Mystery, thrills. They're as good as you could expect popular fiction to be.” As usual, Shido always qualified his compliments. But that was high praise, for him.

Goro found himself smiling. “Aha. I must say, I'm surprised.”

The smile Shido gave him in return was as genuine as Shido's smiles ever got. “Mind you don't go full Ian Fleming.”

“I haven't leaked any important secrets yet, have I?”

“Well, none of _my_ secrets. Maybe some of yours, Sana Seigi.”

Goro leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs. The folder stayed in his lap, closed, his gloved hands laid carefully over it. He was hyper-aware of the faint weight of it on his thigh. “I can't hide anything from you, can I?”

“I'm offended you've written me as a hammy underworld villain,” Shido shot back in a tone that was more amused than offended. “Osato is a fool. He should have gone into politics.”

Goro smiled wryly. A very Shido-like opinion, that. “He's a very handsome and charismatic underworld villain, though.”

“Is that how you see me?”

Goro's face twisted into something that went halfway to a smile and died. “Basically, yes.”

Shido laughed. His laughs were always full and unreserved, nothing like the smothered chuckles that came out of Goro's throat. “You're just about the only one who's ever honest with me anymore, Goro. I appreciate that. It's good to have someone I can trust.”

“Funny,” Goro murmured. “I don't trust you.”

Shido just laughed again. “When have I ever done you wrong, Goro? You serve me well, and I reward you. Ours is a mutually beneficial relationship.”

“I can't argue with that.”

Shido didn't miss the look on his face. “Not feeling quite rewarded enough?”

Goro's eyelids lowered. “I could do with some more rewards.”

Shido shoved aside the coffee table with one foot, and his expression turned to one of smug disdain. “Then come over here and collect your reward, you little degenerate.” He was sitting with his legs spread arrogantly, his arms over the back of the couch, and he knew exactly where Goro's gaze was fixed.

Goro immediately slid out of the chair, leaving the file folder behind him to crawl over to where Shido sat, spread the man's robe open at the waist, and lowered his head onto Shido's bare cock.

It had been months since Shido had last let him do this.

Shido was soft in his mouth, and it took focused, dedicated sucking to bring an erection out of him. Shido didn't really get off on this—not sexually, anyway. Half the time, Goro couldn't even make him come. But when Goro's eyes turned up to look at him, he would always see Shido looking down at him with a combination of disgust and triumph. Shido was the kind of bastard who enjoyed control in the general, sweeping, grandiose sense as well as the personal sense, and he probably just enjoyed seeing Goro humiliate himself, enjoyed knowing that Goro was willing to do literally anything for him.

Having Shido's cock hard in his mouth was a reward in itself. Shido never moved or did anything—Goro was supposed to be the one doing the work, after all, so he did, mouth sliding aggressively up and down the shaft, taking Shido all the way to the back of his throat. He placed one hand on Shido's thigh to brace himself, using the other to rub his own cock through his pants. He threw himself into it, desperate to get lost in it, desperate to forget the folder lying on the chair behind him, if only for a few minutes.

“You really are sick,” Shido said, sincere revulsion in his voice. The way he talked made Goro's balls tighten. Shido surely knew not only that Goro was his son, but also that Goro knew, and yet wanted this anyway. Neither of them had ever breathed a word of this secret—at this point, it was so obvious, it would be crass to mention it. “You sick faggot.”

Goro felt himself nearly come, so he stilled his hand, pulling himself back off the edge as he continued to suck Shido, enjoying the warm length sliding along his tongue and through his lips. He wanted to make this last. He needed to make this last as long as possible.

“Isn't that your cell phone? It's rather obnoxious.” Shido said, but Goro hadn't even noticed the alert noise. All there was on his mind was Shido's cock and his hand on his own dick.

Shido reached out to touch his hair and stroked it, gently. “You know I only give this to you because you do such good work for me,” he said, tone low as it slid through Goro's ears and straight down into his cock. “You deserve a reward sometimes. You're a good boy, Goro.”

Goro couldn't hold back. He shuddered and came in his pants. He kept his mouth working Shido's cock, but he knew this was going to be one of those times when Shido wouldn't come. He kept going, anyway, for as long as Shido would let him, until Shido pushed his head away.

Shido looked down at him with contempt and fondness, the way you might look at a pet dog who had a tendency to hump your leg. Goro supposed that was what he was. He just kept coming back, no matter how many times he was beaten with a newspaper. He'd played a dangerous game of manipulation with Shido, and had lost. Maybe he'd never really intended to be victorious, in the first place—he'd been acting out of desperation, while Shido always played to win.

This was something he had done to himself. And it hadn't been about revenge for a long, long time. It was too hard to lie to himself about it, now.

“Now go do your job,” Shido said with a shove to his forehead, and Goro stood up, turned around, and picked up the folder.

“I'll see you later, for my report,” Goro turned his head around to say with the same sharp smile he always used with Shido, before walking to the door, slipping his shoes on, and putting the file into his briefcase.

“I'll be looking forward to it,” Shido said, his tone light, his attention already turned elsewhere.

The come in his pants was drying and uncomfortable. The folder in his briefcase burned in his mind.

He still hadn't checked his cell phone.

x x x

Goro got back to his apartment, switched on the light in the kitchen, and brought out the file folder to spread its contents out on the table. He created a few minor excuses to put off looking at it. He got changed into more comfortable clothing, he rinsed the product out of his hair, he brushed his teeth.

Eventually, out of distractions, he was forced to sit down at the table and look at the file.

What a joke.

What a stupid, sick joke this was.

Goro had noticed fairly quickly that Akira in the art gallery was the same Joker who texted him. Even if he'd never revealed his face, it was obvious enough when Goro had seen pictures of every other part of his body. The way he talked was too much like Joker. And then, at the end, when he'd made that fucking small dick comment, Goro had been forced to realize just who it was there with him.

Had he seriously thought Goro was so stupid, he would never notice? What an arrogant prick.

His mere presence in the art gallery put a lie to his little life story, and Goro had immediately begun to wonder just how much of everything else he'd said was a lie, too. Every word he said was immediately suspect. And yet, and yet, Goro had become so enamored with playing pretend, he couldn't stop. He wanted to keep up the farce. He couldn't even throw stones, when he was constantly lying through his teeth, too. It was all a big farce.

The grand culmination of their big game of pretend came in the form of _Red Traitor_. Goro had always poured his fantasies into his books, so this was nothing new. This was just another story he'd made himself believe for a time, a very bittersweet little fiction. He'd written it figuring they would be over by the time it was published, anyway, so why not indulge? Goro's whole life was based on make-believe to begin with.

Staring at the file, Goro wondered if what Shido had said was true, if Akira Kurusu, a.k.a. Joker, had suspected him of being an assassin, had been scoping him out. But this all seemed rather too elaborate for that. Maybe that had been the initial intention, and then he'd gotten carried away with the game, started to enjoy the sexual tension. That seemed the most plausible story to Goro. He could understand getting carried away.

Who was Akira Kurusu, really? Someone who had spent seven years in the SDF and had currently enacted at least one assassination by shooting. A far cry from the shut-in fanboy he had claimed to be.

Well, it was clear he actually had read all of _Bloody Justice,_ but who hadn't? They were bestselling books.

Killing Akira Kurusu wouldn't be hard. He was a stranger. Joker had never been real.

Goro looked at his phone and saw a message from Joker there.

**They finally released the cover art for Red Traitor! Ahh Sana Seigi is SMOKING. Marry me, Sana Seigi! I love you!!**

**Haha, I'm glad you're excited,** Goro texted back.

Then he put down his phone, stared at the file for another two hours, and successfully managed not to cry.

A few more hours, and he brought himself to tell Joker they would never speak again.

That message was to Joker, the character, the fiction, so he did his best to be kind.

x x x

Shido wanted him to question Akira Kurusu, first, but Goro had absolutely no intention of doing so. If there was one thing Goro had learned over years, it was his own moral limitations. It had been something of a relief to know that he just didn't have the stomach for torture. It was proof he wasn't a complete and utter monster. He'd done it once, and then had promptly vomited up his dinner. Of course, this had then necessitated cleaning up all of the evidence, and being on his hands and knees scrubbing the floor clean of vomit next to a dead body was not Goro's idea of a good time.

Murder was quick and animalistic, where torture was slow and human. The last thing Goro wanted to be reminded of was anyone's humanity, his own included.

Shido had to have realized by now that Goro tended to “accidentally” kill people he was supposed to be torturing at a ratio near one hundred percent, so this request for information couldn't have been all that sincere. Goro could manage a little bit of mild threats, but anything that involved inflicting pain was beyond him and he wasn't going to do it.

All that aside, he just didn't want to hear a single word out of Akira Kurusu's mouth, anyway.

Before doing the deed, Goro did engage in some minor extra legwork himself. He never fully trusted Shido's lackeys. He discovered fairly quickly by searching through one of Shido's private databases for personal information—gleaned from various private companies in the online shopping and social media industries—that Akira Kurusu lived together with one Ryuji Sakamoto. Well, it was no surprise a guy like him had a boyfriend. But it did complicate things. Fortunately, Sakamoto seemed to be technologically inept, and Shido's information network essentially owned the companies that ran a number of popular apps, two of which were almost constantly running on Sakamoto's phone, one of which was constantly pinging his location.

So it was just as simple as picking a night when Sakamoto's phone signalled him going out for the evening. Goro prepared every night until an opportune evening came his way.

Each night, he prepared the tools he would need, dressed in casual clothes—dark colors—tied back his hair, and waited. When a good night hit, Goro left his apartment with a ball cap, face mask, gloves, and a small backpack with the items he'd need slung over one shoulder.

Being a celebrity, it wasn't even unnatural for him to be doing this part. What celebrity didn't try to conceal their identity in public?

He'd memorized the address, and he went there on the train, like a regular person. He walked to the residence, picked the lock with such smooth practice, anyone watching would have thought he was using a key, stepped inside, and closed the door behind him. He put down his bag and pulled out his preferred tool: rope. He had various other methods, but this was his usual one. Personal, but it wouldn't leave a mess, and it was easy to stage as suicide. It required a certain degree of muscle and finesse for stronger targets, but Goro was confident in his abilities. It was already tied in a noose.

The apartment was dark. He knew ~~Joker~~ Kurusu stayed up late, so he'd picked an hour he could be fairly certain he was asleep.

He walked through the apartment carefully. He was used to this, and needed no lights. There were two bedrooms. He picked one, cracking the door, then opened one all the way when he saw the bed was occupied.

It was too dark to see much. Kurusu lay there just as dozens of Goro's past targets had, sprawled out, half-under, half-over the covers, still and quiet. There was a cat lying on the end of the bed, and upon Goro's entrance, its ears immediately shot up and it looked at Goro, eyes glinting eerily from the faintest moonlight that leaked through the curtains of the bedroom window. The cat meowed, tail swishing.

Morgana. Fuck. He'd forgotten Joker had a cat.

Goro froze in the doorway. The cat meowed again, but Kurusu didn't stir.

So Goro stepped carefully toward Kurusu, eyes on the cat the whole time. The cat's head followed him, staring, but he didn't make another sound, just watching with accusatory eyes as Goro brought the noose into position above Kurusu's head, not touching him. He would bring it down and tighten it in one movement.

x x x

Futaba had instructed Akira to set up that security system in the most ridiculously discreet way possible, using tricks that only the ultra-paranoid were even aware of. She'd tucked a motion sensor _inside_ the door mat, the first camera was hidden in the eye of a waving lucky cat just inside the door, and the only way the system could be disabled was from either her or Akira's phone (Ryuji could not be trusted with anything technological) and she knew for a fact Akira slept with his phone at his bedside. No matter how pro some intruder was, they would never notice her equipment and disable it.

Futaba was indulging in a late-night deep web trawl of military leaks—not the useful kind, this was entertainment—when an alarm sounded on her phone, and she jumped. This one wasn't one of her any number of more mundane alarms. It was the security alarm for Joker's apartment. Futaba's first assumption was that Akira had forgotten to turn off the door alarm again, or that Morgana had gotten out somehow and was sitting on the sensor, so she brought up the camera feed on her computer—and discovered that it was not another false alarm. Someone was in the apartment, and they weren't anyone Futaba knew.

She immediately called Akira's phone. The alarm should have gone off on his phone simultaneously—but it seemed that _stupid braindead idiot_ had turned off his phone, or the battery was out. This was the point where Futaba started to panic.

She tried calling Ryuji. No answer. She knew he was out that night, drinking with some friends. Maybe he'd missed the last train and was sleeping over somewhere. Maybe he was at home but asleep. Either way, he wasn't answering.

Without even thinking, Futaba grabbed her keys, her phone, and a couple of bills off her desk, dashed out of her room, shoved her feet into her boots, and ran out the door. She ran a block, shivering in the cold spring air without a jacket, then slowed to a walk, out of breath, and tried calling Ryuji again. No answer. Again. No answer. She ran another block, forced herself to run another block and another until she was at the train station, panting and sweating. The trains had stopped, this late at night, but there were taxis here, at least.

It wasn't until she got into a taxi that she realized she didn't know Akira's address.

How could she not know Akira's address? He was her best friend. They'd known each other since they were teenagers. They texted every day. They hung out multiple times a week.

But she'd never once been to his apartment.

Her hands on her phone were shaking and sweating, and she was ice-cold. “Miss?” the driver said, and Futaba was suddenly humiliated, dashing out of the taxi again.

“Sorry!” she blurted, but then stopped in place again, lost. She looked at her phone, and the taxi, at her phone again, and her brain was frozen. All she could do was stand there and think, _Akira is going to die, Akira is going to die, Akira is going to die because you don't know his fucking address_ and stare at her phone.

After she'd stood there a while, not moving from the spot, the taxi driver turned off the engine and got out to approach her. “Are you all right, Miss?”

“I-I'm fine,” she stuttered, and backed away a few steps, turning around. She had to call someone. No Akira. No Ryuji. Yusuke. She pressed call, then hung up. But he didn't know. He didn't know anything. Had he ever even been to Akira's apartment? He didn't know Akira's address. What kind of idiot was she, to be calling Yusuke to ask about Akira?

Who knew Akira's address? Someone had to. He had so many friends—she knew he did. So then why didn't she know any of them but Ryuji?

There was Takemi. She didn't know where Akira lived, did she?

Futaba was reduced to scrolling through her whole list of contacts, one by one. If you eliminated take-out delivery places, it wasn't a long list.

Sojiro. Akira. Ryuji. Yusuke. Takemi.

Ann.

Futaba immediately pressed call, and the phone rang. And rang. And rang.

“Hello?” Ann answered, sounding only half-awake.

“Um!” Futaba began, and then froze. Just how the hell was she supposed to explain this? Was there any non-incriminating way to explain that she'd had Akira install a fancy security system at his apartment in case this mysterious assassin came to kill him and by the way _it was probably too late and Akira was already dead Akira was already dead he was already dead and it was_ _ **her fault.**_

Futaba's mouth stopped halfway, and she couldn't say anything.

“Futaba? Is something going on?” Ann sounded concerned.

“Ah…” Futaba jerked the phone away from her ear and hung up. She couldn't expose all of this to Ann. But who else was there? Fuck. Why did she hang up? She looked at the phone, and it rang. Ann was calling her back. Face burning over her indecisive, pathetic behavior, Futaba answered.

“Are you okay, Futaba? Is something wrong?” Ann sounded even more concerned, now. She didn't sound sleepy anymore.

“D-do you know Akira's address?!” Futaba managed to blurt.

“I've been over there,” Ann answered immediately. “I remember where it is. Is something going on with him?”

“J-just tell me how to get there!” Futaba dashed back into the concerned-looking taxi driver's cab.

x x x

The moment before Goro was about to bring the noose down over Kurusu's neck, Kurusu's head jerked away from the loop and his hands shot up to Goro's neck, grabbing him by the collar to throw him down on the bed. The cat hissed and leaped away.

Goro immediately dropped the noose, his hands going inside Kurusu's guard to swipe outward, breaking the hold on Goro's collar so he could roll out from underneath Kurusu. But Kurusu didn't let him go far, grabbing him by the back of his jacket as he rolled away, yanking him towards him with brute strength, but Goro twisted out of his grasp, rolling down off the bed.

Kurusu followed him down, but missed in the dark, staggering as Goro rolled away and bounced to his feet, and Goro took the opportunity to sucker-punch him in the gut. His fist connected with bare skin—Kurusu wasn't wearing a shirt. When Kurusu pitched forward in response, Goro followed that up with an elbow in the back, at the pressure point around the shoulder blade.

His aim was apparently off in the dark, however, as Kurusu staggered but didn't go down, moving from his hunched position into a straight-up football tackle, hooking Goro around the stomach and pushing him out through the bedroom door to slam him into the floor of the living room.

The impact winded Goro, and in the moment he was stunned, Kurusu got on top of him and punched him clean across the face. That would leave a bruise, all right.

“Ah…” the sound leaked out of Goro on the impact. He shot out with the heel of his palm, aiming for the underside of Kurusu's jaw, but Kurusu turned the strike aside with a hand and caught him by the wrist, forcing his arm down. Goro's other hand followed up with a hook, but Kurusu caught that one too, pinning his other arm.

It really had been a long time since he'd last tried to kill anyone capable of fighting back. The humiliation of the situation made Goro grit his teeth.

“Who are you? Who do you work for?” Kurusu demanded. It was dark. Of course he couldn't see.

Of course, Goro didn't answer. Who the hell would? He twisted, kicking up with his knees, but Kurusu shifted his weight back to make it harder for Goro to lift his thighs.

Kurusu squeezed his wrists just to the point of pain, and his voice got just a touch lower. “Tell me.”

Goro suppressed a shiver, but twisted again, wrenching his whole body in a single movement, yanking his arms in and twisting them in attempt to get them free—but to no avail. Kurusu's grip was firm. He squeezed tighter, and Goro swallowed the noise his throat wanted to make.

“Pretty shit assassin you are,” Kurusu said, and his tone was mocking, casual, his face close enough that Goro could feel his breath. “And I heard you were supposed to be good. But they're really scraping the bottom of the barrel, aren't they? Bargain-bin assassins, five hundred yen a pop.”

Goro scowled in the darkness. Kurusu was clearly trying to goad him into saying something, saying anything that would reveal information. He wasn't stupid enough to give him that. Goro kept his mouth shut, even when Kurusu squeezed his wrists hard enough that he wanted to yelp. This man had some real fucking grip strength.

But Kurusu kept going. “You know I already know everything, don't you? I've been researching you for months. I knew you were coming. I've been waiting for it.”

It seemed Kurusu had decided to drop the act. Even though Goro had already predicted all of this, hearing it was still a punch to the gut. This was why he'd wanted to kill Kurusu quickly. He didn't want to hear this.

Kurusu leaned in, and Goro could feel his breath on his ear. “I'm ready to kill you, you filthy piece of shit, so you'd better _give me what I want._ ”

Goro shuddered—not in fear.

Kurusu laughed, and Goro could feel that laugh where their bodies touched. This close, he could see the outline of Kurusu's naked torso. “Are you _hard_? Oh, my god, you fucking pervert.” And then he ground his crotch down onto Goro's, and Goro shuddered again.

“You _are!_ ” Kurusu sounded incredulous, and also rather gleeful, as he ground against Goro again, and again, and Goro was biting his lip, trying to keep from moaning. Goro felt the line of Kurusu's cock through his thin pyjama pants—he was hard, too, and that knowledge made his dick twitch. “Wow, this is hilarious. Did you really sneak in here to assassinate me, or did you come in looking to get laid? You should've just come over during the day, I'm easy. Or is it—” A roll of his hips, and Goro bit his lip— “that you just knew I wouldn't even want your sorry ass unless the lights were off? God damn, you pathetic fuck.” His cock ground down into Goro's one more time, and the moan Goro had been trying to hold back leaked out—half-smothered, whimpering.

Kurusu froze. His hands left Goro's wrists—he'd stopped fighting a while ago, anyway—and then reached out to Goro's face, pulling off his face mask to touch his lips, his cheeks, pushing off the hat to touch his hair.

His hands trembled.

Then he grabbed Goro by the back of his head and yanked him up into a crushing kiss.

Goro's body responded before his brain did, mouth opening, tongue sliding alongside Kurusu's. Kurusu's arms wrapped around him, squeezing, restraining, and Goro's arms hung limp as his mind desperately tried to keep up.

Kurusu broke the kiss to mutter, “You never told me who your Osamu Osato is.”

“Why do you think I'd tell you anything?” Goro spoke for the first time, and his voice sounded surprisingly harsh in his own ears.

Kurusu's embrace tightened around him, crushingly hard. “You need him?”

“I see you've read _Red Traitor,_ ” Goro said dryly, but his voice was shaking. It was a force of effort to keep everything else from shaking, too. Why the fuck wasn't Goro just pushing him off, using this opportunity to strike back? Clearly, Kurusu's guard was down. Now was the time. If he was going to do it, it had to be now.

Before it was too late.

“Of course I've fucking read _Red Traitor,_ ” Kurusu spat. “How could you do that? How could you cut me off and then publish _that?_ ”

“It's fiction,” Goro said, voice flat. “I assumed we would be done before it was published. You were just clingier than I'd imagined.”

Kurusu's arms tightened around him. “It wasn't just me. You wanted it. You said you liked talking to me.” His voice took on a tone close to begging. Goro's chest clenched.

“I liked talking to _Joker,”_ Goro said, his tone as cold as he could make it. “Who are you?”

Kurusu didn't answer. He just returned to his earlier question. “Who is Osamu Osato? Is he your boss?”

Goro didn't reply.

“You know a guy like that will never love you, right?” Kurusu's face was pressed into his shoulder. Goro could feel Kurusu's breath on his neck.

“And _you_ will?” Goro asked, sarcastic, incredulous.

“Just tell me who it is!” Kurusu yelled, and Goro winced at the loud sound so close to his ear.

“Why do you want to know?”

“So I can fucking kill him,” Kurusu hissed, and Goro was certain in his core that Kurusu meant it. Goro just laughed. It was the most pathetic-sounding laugh he'd heard out of himself in a long time.

“I'll do it,” Kurusu emphasized. “Is that why you've avoided me? Because—because you have a fucking manipulative psychopath who controls your life?”

“I'm not a victim in this situation, Kurusu,” Goro said, the unfamiliar name strange on his lips. “If you're thinking you can _save_ me, you can fuck right off.” But even as his words were harsh, the warmth of Kurusu's arms around him made him ache.

“I'm not trying to…I just want—” He swallowed audibly. “I just want you to be my boyfriend.”

“Aha…” Goro chuckled, and then it turned into a dry laugh. He wasn't sure what to think anymore. He didn't know who the person with his arms around him was. He didn't even know what he wanted.

That was when, in the silence, he heard steps outside the door, and the doorknob rattling.

Kurusu reacted immediately, yanking Goro up and shoving him into the bedroom, closing the door. “Hide!” he hissed, and Goro staggered back, stunned.

He glanced at the window. He could just escape. Leave now.

But what would that accomplish?

He got down on his stomach and slid under the bed, and saw the lights flick on in the other room. He heard someone burst in through the door, yelling, “Akira!” A woman's voice. There was a lot of sobbing and incoherent accusations, and it sounded like Akira was trying to calm her down.

“What happened?” the woman eventually pulled herself together to ask. “The alarm went off, and I saw someone breaking in. I thought for sure it was the crow. I thought…” her voice wobbled again.

“It was,” Akira told her. “But I'm a light sleeper. Morgana woke me up. I fought him off. It was pretty dark and it was kinda chaos, but I think I beat him up pretty bad. But he got away, and ran off not long before you got here.”

Goro's heart was hammering so loud, he felt they had to hear it. Why the hell was Kurusu lying for him? It seemed this woman was working with him, the way she talked, it seemed she was in the know—though had no idea what she meant by “the crow.” Was that supposed to be him?

“You never saw his face?!”

“No. The lights were off the whole time.”

“You should've let me get night vision cameras! I would've recorded everything!”

“I didn't let you because those cost a fortune,” Kurusu's tone was dry. “And I'm not letting you record my life. Live feed only, we promised.”

There were cameras in here? There was a security system? Goro cursed his own incompetence. Why the fuck hadn't he noticed anything? Of course Kurusu would have taken measures. Goro was just getting lazy and cocky, assuming because he'd seen nothing at the door that there really was nothing. When had become this stupid? He had underestimated Kurusu. He had deeply, deeply underestimated Kurusu. He wasn't just some crazy vet with a vendetta or a hired shooter. He was something else.

“I should've been recording,” the woman repeated.

“You just want sex tapes of me.”

“This is serious, Akira!” The woman sounded exasperated. “A guy just came in trying to kill you! A-a-and you're not even a little nervous about it?! I-I-I was—” it almost sounded like she was going to start crying again, but she pulled herself together. “You have to move. You and Ryuji have to move to a new place.”

“Okay, we'll move,” Kurusu said, tone soothing.

“I'm not gonna let you die. You're not gonna die because of me. This is my fault, I'm not gonna let you get killed for my revenge, that wouldn't be _worth it,_ I'll plan it better, I'll do a better job, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…” she started crying again, in the muffled sort of way that told Goro her face was against Kurusu's chest.

“I'm not going to die. I've got Morgana to keep me safe,” he joked, but she didn't seem to appreciate his humor, and cried harder.

She pulled herself together again to say, “I'm going to make sure we kill that bastard, Akira. I'll track him down. I promise.”

Akira didn't say anything, and listening to them, Goro closed his eyes, feeling the cool hardwood floor under his cheek and wanting all of this to end.

After what felt like hours of more soothing, more accusations, more arguing about the security system, and what sounded like scrupulous checking of said security system, eventually, Kurusu called a taxi for the woman to send her home.

“I'm sorry,” the woman muttered. “I can only sleep at home. I'll freak out if I stay here. You should come over, too. You'd be safer.”

“No,” Kurusu said firmly. “I already told you. I beat that guy up pretty badly. He's not coming back tonight. I'll be okay for the time being. You go get some sleep, okay?”

“If you turn your phone off again, I'm gonna kill you,” the woman told him.

“Won't that void the point of this whole security thing, then?”

“Agh! You know what I mean!”

Eventually, Goro heard the door closing, and Kurusu's quiet footsteps came back to the bedroom, and he opened the door and turned on the lights. Goro heard him walking across the room, and then a clicking noise. “I turned off the camera in here,” Kurusu said.

Feeling slightly foolish, Goro shuffled out from underneath the bed and got to his feet. “What the fuck was that about?” was the first thing he asked.

“Um…” Kurusu's expression froze, and it was apparent from his reaction that he'd thought exactly none of this through.

“I can tell that woman was your accomplice,” Goro said. “Why hide me from her? What the fuck are you doing?”

Kurusu looked away, and having the lights on, being in his physical presence and seeing his face so suddenly, was jarring. In the dark, he'd been intimidating, dominating—in the light, he seemed clearly lost. He was shorter than Goro, especially barefoot. He looked young.

“I just tried to kill you! What are you doing?!” Goro demanded.

Kurusu just glared back at him. “Well, you're not trying to kill me now, are you? What are _you_ doing?”

Goro's mouth opened, but nothing came out. He felt his expression twist, and started running a hand through his hair, then paused halfway. He couldn't meet Kurusu's eyes. “I'm fucking it up, that's what I'm doing. Was this your plan, all along? You make contact, investigate me, manipulate me so I _can't_ kill you anymore? What a real fucking psychopath you are. I suppose that's my type, though. Aha-ha. Congratulations. You won. I hope crushing me underneath your boot gets you hard, at least.”

Kurusu closed the distance between them, and Goro flinched, but Kurusu just wrapped him in another crushing hug, burying his face against the base of Goro's neck. “No! Why do you think—” He cut himself off, then started again. “I didn't mean to lie to you. I'm sorry.”

Goro didn't believe it, but he didn't have the strength to push Kurusu away, either. “Why are you even apologizing? I told you it takes one to know one. We both played our roles, and you beat me. You were the better liar, in the end.”

“I don't want to lie to you!”

“I want you to lie to me,” Goro hissed, and he pushed his mouth against Kurusu's, yanking him down by his arms to the bed on top of him.

Kurusu fell, startled, surprised at first, but kissed back, and Goro was glad for any interruption of their conversation, glad of anything that could get him out of that agonizing exchange. Kurusu pushed Goro's hoodie and shirt over his head together, and Goro arched into his touch, demanding with his mouth and his hands for Kurusu to fuck him until he couldn't think anymore.

But then Kurusu slowed to a stop and just stayed there, hanging over him. “I'm…really not in the mood right now.”

Goro scowled, still avoiding Kurusu's eyes. It was hard, when their faces were so close. He wanted the lights off again. “A pity. You were doing so well before.”

Even without looking at his face, Goro could hear the horror in Kurusu's voice. “I didn't—I didn't know! I didn't know it was you!”

Goro didn't really believe that. He wasn't sure what he believed. “So?”

“Do you not get the difference between roleplay and reality?!”

“All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players,” Goro quipped.

“Don't you fucking quote Shakespeare at me.”

“Oh, you got that? I'm surprised. I thought you were stupider than that.”

Kurusu, unfortunately, did not rise to the bait. “I had the best grades in juvie,” he said, tone ironic.

“Too bad that doesn't translate to competence in bed.” Even as the words were coming out of his mouth, he knew they were bullshit.

“Would you prefer I treat you like shit?” Kurusu's tone was harsh. Goro closed his eyes.

 _I would prefer you kill me,_ the words nearly slipped out, but he bit them back. “You're an idiot for being this generous to me,” was all he did say.

“You don't deserve to be treated badly.”

Goro laughed. “Are you really that naive? Aha-ha-ha! You should have listened to your friend. Letting me live is going to be the biggest mistake of your life.”

“The biggest mistake of my life was lying about everything to you.”

“…What an error-free life you must have led,” Goro said, practically choking on his own bitterness.

Kurusu collapsed on top of Goro and buried his face in his naked chest. “Just…let me take care of you. Please.”

“You can't.”

“Then let me get to know you. The real you.”

“…I'd really rather play pretend,” Goro said, and he meant it with every fiber of his being.

 


	9. Momentum

 

Discovering Akechi was “the crow” was a shock, but a shock that made sense, and Akira found himself accepting it quickly, despite how superficially absurd it all was. Akira had at least suspected for quite some time that Akechi had written a lot of himself into Sana Seigi, but now it was clear she wasn't just a self-insert—Sana Seigi _was_ Akechi, including her more literally bloody aspects.

Kneeling on the bed over him, Akira's mind finally began to wind down from adrenaline mode. He needed to stop just reacting and think clearly. He collapsed onto Akechi's chest and tried to figure out what to say. He felt like their conversation was going in circles.

“This isn't a game to me,” he said, finally. Akechi had been avoiding his eyes for a while now. In the very short amount of time they'd spent in person together, it felt like Akechi had spent far more time looking away from him than at him. “I want…I want you to trust me.” He hooked his arms around Akechi's neck, and Akechi's chest was warm against his, the night air chilly against his back.

“That's been quite apparent for some time now,” Akechi said, tone biting. His arms lay limp on the bed, his head turned to the side and away.

“What can I do to get you to trust me?” Akira asked, trying not to sound like he was pleading.

“Please. I thought you've read _Red Traitor?_ ”

“…I want to be your exception.”

Akechi just laughed at him. “You've already tried every trick in the book on me, and nothing worked.”

Akira pushed up off the bed to look down at Akechi's face again, and saw a twisted mass of bitterness. “Every trick in the book? What are you talking about?”

Akechi turned his head up, finally looking him in the eye. His gaze was full of naked, vicious anger and hate. “Don't play dumb with me now. The attention-getting opening. _Oh, looks like you don't have any friends, Akechi, I'll be your friend._ The immediate, calculated combination of compliments and insults about my work, designed to get me to engage. Manufacturing an identity with a history designed to make me feel empathetic to you. In retrospect, the constant attempts to dig into my personal life are so comical. Why ask what you already know? Well, I have to respect your research skills, at least.”

“None of that was _calculated!_ You came to that conclusion on your own!”

“Didn't you just say you don't want to play games?” Goro snapped.

“I…I didn't _research_ you. Why the hell do you think I did that?”

“Enough with the fucking hypocrisy!” Akechi shoved his shoulders and pushed him off the bed. Akira stumbled back. “You _knew_ everything about me! You _knew_ I was alone. You _knew_ I was an orphan. You knew I like men, you knew what turns me on. You arranged to run into me at the art gallery.” By the end of this, Akechi hunched over on the edge of the bed, hands pressing the sides of his head with this face turned down.

Akira breathed a deep sigh and knelt down, pressing himself against Akechi's knees so he could look up at his face. Akechi jerked his head away, hiding behind his hair.

Akira lay his head down on Akechi's lap and exhaled a shaky breath. “You're not going to believe that I'm just perceptive and that most of that was coincidence, are you?”

Akechi's only response was a weak snort.

Akira's brain was spinning, trying to find some exit point, something he could say besides the truth. Even now, the truth felt like bile in his throat and he wanted to swallow it to dispel the flavor. His arms squeezed around Akechi's legs. “…I'm a compulsive liar,” he said finally. “I tell people whatever they want to hear to get them to like me. …And I wanted you to like me.”

Akechi snorted again.

“I honestly didn't know anything about you. Aside from…a couple people, I tell everyone a different story about my life. That was just the bullshit I thought up on the spur of the moment. It was…based off someone I know. I was talking about someone else. I don't know why I kept doing it. Just, the longer it went on, the more I felt I couldn't turn back. I didn't want to turn back.”

Akechi was silent. Akira knew that wasn't enough.

So Akira told him. In a long, rambling, mostly-chronological fashion, he told Akechi about his whole life—his real life. From trivial facts about what club he'd been in back in elementary school (embarrassingly enough, chess club) to the sort of people he'd been friends with in middle school (the A-group) to even things he hadn't told Ryuji (like how he'd tried to reconnect with old friends after juvie and received total radio silence), about how his parents had packed his things for him without even asking, simply assuming he would be out of their lives. He told Akechi about his teenaged fondness for Russian anarchists, his first real relationship, which he had sabotaged with his own insecurity, and his time in the SDF, which he'd largely spent living a lie as a person he very violently was not.

And he told Akechi everything about working for Futaba—with only names and details that would expose Futaba or Ryuji redacted.

“You're being so stupid,” Akechi muttered, finally. “You shouldn't be telling me any of this. You're sabotaging your own goal.”

Akira laughed rather dryly into Akechi's lap. “I know this is a bad idea. I hope you'll keep my secrets. I just need you to trust me.”

“…Why?”

Akira went silent. He wasn't sure himself. Any answer didn't seem like enough. But he had to come up with something. He had to come up with the _right_ thing. What was the right thing to say? It was so easy for him to come up with the right thing to say with anyone else, but with Akechi it was always agony. He felt like he was playing a dating sim and reloading over and over to pick new responses only to get bad end after bad end after bad end.

“…Because I'm worried if you don't trust me, I'll never see you again,” he said, and his voice broke at the end. Akira understood foreshadowing. Sana Seigi did not trust Akagi Akai. They weren't going to be together. Every hint, every Chekhov's gun, every bit of characterization was pointing toward tragedy. But Akira thought the author could go fuck himself on that point. Fuck canon. Akira was going down with this ship.

Akechi breathed out a long sigh, and neither of them said anything for a while. Akira was scared to say anything, scared to move.

“There's…nothing you can do,” Akechi said finally, voice soft. “You should…drop it.”

Akira's eyes flared open, and his head shot off Akechi's lap to glare at him. “You're wrong.”

“You don't get it,” Akechi shook his head. “Do you honestly think you can fix everything with vigilantism? That's beyond naive.”

“You're the one who wrote a fucking series about vigilante justice!”

“That's a _fantasy!”_ Akechi snapped, hands clenching the edge of the bed. He was close to yelling, just barely restraining himself. “In real life, the people who were born at the top stay at the top, and they use all their money to hire scum like _me_ to get rid of anyone who challenges them. You can be the best shooter in the world and kill and kill and kill and you will never wipe this planet clean. The world is a gigantic fucking septic tank of greed and apathy and cruelty and nothing, _nothing_ you do will change that!”

Akira looked him straight in the eye and stared him down. “You don't really believe that. I know you don't. Because you wrote Akai. He's a fucking beacon of upstanding compassion and righteousness, a real pure-hearted Robin Hood, and he's the ethical core of the whole series. He stopped Sana from going too far so many times. I know _that_ is what you really believe in.”

“It's a fantasy,” Akechi repeated, but quieter, this time. “Nobody is like that in real life. Even you told me he's unrealistic. That's just an ideal.”

“Well, I'm gonna try my goddamn best to be that ideal. I'll show you Akai is real.” Akira was tense, and he was speaking too harshly. He wanted Akechi to believe him, but it seemed like such a hopeless task.

Akechi looked up, caught Akira's eyes, then grabbed his head, bringing him down into a kiss. His hands squeezed the sides of Akira's face a little too tight. He let go. “I really, really wish you could.”

Akira pushed Akechi down on the bed again, kissing him, and this time, he didn't stop. He tangled his fingers through Akechi's hair, refusing to let go. Akechi responded by wrapping his arms around Akira's middle and pulling him close. This was the first time Akechi had actually hugged him back, and it send shivers running straight down into Akira's cock.

Akira ran his hands down Akechi's chest to rest at the waist of his slacks, which he unbuttoned swiftly. He pulled them down all the way along with Akechi's underwear, sliding them off his legs, and Akechi helped, kicking them away. Akira leaned in, pressing Akechi's legs up and apart to lick a line from just below his balls all the way up to the tip of his hardening cock, and Akechi whimpered.

“Do you always get hard this fast?” Akira asked between teasing flicks of his tongue on Akechi's cock.

“Don't ask stupid questions,” Akechi shot back, but he was squirming in Akira's grasp, clearly desperate for more.

Akira pushed Akechi forward until he was fully ass in the air and sank his mouth over Akechi's cock, pumping it a few times to get it wet before his lips traveled down over Akechi's balls, sucking, then licking further down to Akechi's asshole.

When his tongue went in, Akechi gasped. Akira starting stroking Akechi's spit-slick dick with one hand as his tongue explored the circumference of Akechi's hole, sucking, lapping, finding just what would make Akechi twitch and press into his touch.

He pulled back for a moment so he could see Akechi's face, and saw him looking back, panting, face red. “…What?” Akechi demanded, when Akira stared at him.

“Just appreciating how sexy you are,” Akira said with a grin, and Akechi scowled. “What, you don't like that?”

“I'd rather you call me a whore.” Akechi turned his face aside, looking a little embarrassed.

Stroking Akechi's cock slowly, teasingly, Akira replied, “How about a sexy whore?”

“At least try to say it like you mean it.” Akechi was clearly going for disgruntled, but he sounded a little too breathy to be convincing, and his hands were squeezing the pillow above his head.

Akira leaned his face against Akechi's thigh and stilled his hand on Akechi's cock. “I'm totally into that if you want, but you know I don't actually think that about you, right?”

Akechi sighed. “It doesn't matter.”

“Yes, it does,” Akira insisted, squeezing Akechi's thigh in a one-armed hug. “I want to make you feel good. I don't want to hurt you.”

“I'm not that fragile.”

“Aren't you?”

Akechi opened his mouth, then closed it. “You're _so_ smug. Just fuck me already.”

Akira began slowly stroking Akechi's cock again. “If you want me to stop, just tap out like wrestling, okay?”

“That's stupid. I'm not going to do that.”

“But I want you to have the option. If I were to hurt you, in would hurt me.”

Akechi's expression turned pained, and he covered his face with his arm. “That sort of talk really is a turn-off.”

Akira lowered Akechi down to the bed, and then his hand shot out to grab Akechi's chin and lean down close to his face. “You'd rather I talk to you like the slut you are, is that it?” he said with a sly smirk. “Is that what gets you hard?”

Akechi closed his eyes and breathed, “ _Yes._ ”

“Well then, act like a slut and suck my cock.” Akira turned them around and sat down at the head of the bed, tugging down his sweatpants so he could pull Akechi's head onto his hard cock.

Akechi went to it like a starving man presented with a feast, one hand going to his own cock to start jerking himself as he sucked.

“Did I give you permission to jerk off?” Akira said with a snort, hands fisted in Akechi's hair. “You just have no self-control at all, do you? Get your fucking hand off your dick, you whore.” Akechi whimpered over Akira's cock but did as told, his hand moving to cup Akira's balls instead as his head bobbed obediently up and down.

“How desperate were you for this?” Akira murmured at him, stroking his cheek with a thumb. “How many times have you come to thoughts of sucking me off? You were just dying for the chance to worship my cock, weren't you?” Akira thrust up into his throat and pulled down on his hair, making him choke, then let go. Akechi pulled away to gasp for air, coughing. “Oh, you can't even handle that? What, is my cock too big for you? And here I thought sucking dick was the one thing you're good for.”

Akechi's eyes took on a glassy look as his mouth slid back down over Akira's cock, but Akira was meaner this time, thrusting into his throat with an uneven rhythm designed to make him struggle. “What am I going to do with you if you can't even suck cock right? Then you'll really just be a hole to fuck.”

Akechi made a smothered moan on his cock, shuddering, and it took Akira a minute to realize he was coming. When Akira pushed him off his cock, he was panting, a sticky mess on the sheets in front of him.

“You really do love sucking cock, don't you?” Akira muttered, incredulous.

Akechi looked somewhat bashful as he wiped the drool away from his mouth. “Aha…”

Akira turned around and fumbled in his drawer for a condom and some lube. He was painfully hard as he rolled the condom down over his cock and slicked it up. He bowled Akechi over again on his back, ass-up like before, and he didn't resist, limp in that post-orgasm sort of way, until Akira started pressing into him.

“I just came,” he protested with a little twitch, but Akira ignored him and continued to push in, and Akechi squirmed and moaned.

“Is it my fault you're a slut who comes at the drop of the hat? _Just fuck me already,_ you said. You can't complain now.” Akira filled him up to the hilt, poised with his hands on either side of Akechi's head, legs pushed up to his ears. He pulled nearly all the way out, then shoved in again, and Akechi yelped.

“What's wrong?” Akira sneered at him. “Too much for you? You're pathetic. You don't even deserve to by my fuckhole.” He started pounding into Akechi, hard. Akira was too far gone to hold back now. With Akechi twisting in the sheets and moaning under him, Akira was teetering on the brink of coming and trying to make it last as long as he could. “Admit it. You're a worthless fucktoy.”

Akechi's eyes were glazed over, clearly lost in the sensation. Akira looked down at him and drowned in his lust-filled gaze.

“I'm your worthless fucktoy…” he mumbled. “I don't deserve you, Akira…Akira…I'm your fucktoy…” He probably wasn't even aware of what he was saying.

Akira thrust deep and cried out as he came, feeling Akechi's arms wrap around his shoulders as the shivers ran through his body. His face descended to Akechi's chest, and he murmured “Goro…” The name felt right on his lips.

They kissed again, and this time Akira felt Goro's hands in his hair, felt his fingers gently stroking his scalp as if petting a cat. Akira would have purred, if he could.

Part of him wanted to stay like that, but there were also sticky messes to deal with, so he pulled out, tossed the condom in his bedside trash, did his best to wipe Goro's come off the bed with a tissue, and then immediately rolled back to cuddling him. He wrapped around Goro from behind, hands coming around Goro's waist to find he was hard again.

“What's this?” he murmured against Goro's ear, stroking him with one hand. “That was a fast recovery.”

“It was…good,” Goro replied, with an awkward laugh that quickly became a hitched breath as Akira steadily stroked him with one hand, the other wrapped around his chest.

“You're so good,” Akira purred back at him. “I spent every second trying so hard not to come. Your moans drive me crazy. I love the way you suck my dick. I think about you nonstop, you know?” As he spoke, his hand was pumping Goro's dick in an even rhythm, and he could feel Goro tensing in his arms, his breathing growing shallow.

“I wish I could have this all the time,” Akira continued, voice soft in Goro's ear. “I want you. Don't leave me.”

A few more strokes, and Goro's come was stickying his hand and dirtying the sheets, and he could feel Goro shuddering against him.

But even after the orgasm passed, Goro's shoulders were still shuddering, and Akira realized he was crying.

“Hey…” Akira started, but then trailed off, and instead just hugged Goro close until he was still again. “Was it something I said?” he said lightly.

Goro gave a laugh that was half a sob. “Everything you say is a problem.”

“Are you calling _me_ a problem?”

“You're definitely a problem child.”

“I get the impression you're into that. I've got the whole bad boy allure, I know,” Akira gave him a squeeze, and Goro snorted weakly. “Crying after sex, phew, someone's got issues.”

“Aha-ha…I know.”

“You want to talk about it?”

“Absolutely not.”

“It's sounding like you're the real problem child, here.” Akira rolled away from Goro to grab some more tissues for Goro to clean up his various messes, and Goro took them without a word.

When he was done, Akira turned him around so they could cuddle face-to-face and brought the blankets up over them both. “You have no idea how stoked I am to be cuddling you,” he said with a squeeze around Goro's middle. Goro's arms around him felt over-warm, but he didn't want them moving one inch.

“I think I have a clue,” Goro said dryly, “since every third word of your texts is _cuddles._ ”

“I'm part cat, what can I say.”

“They do say pets resemble their owners, and vice-versa…” Goro muttered, and that was the last thing Akira heard from him before he fell asleep.

When he woke the next morning, Goro was gone. But there was a text on his (hopelessly cracked hardly-usable) cell phone that read, **You're a miserable blanket-stealer.**

Akira laughed and fell back on his bed, hugging his phone, and then replied,

**You're a miserable heart-stealer.**

x x x

**What are you going to do?** Akira texted Goro not long after that.

**About what?** Goro replied.

**About everything.**

Goro didn't reply at all for a full day, and Akira's heart sank, worried he wouldn't reply. But eventually, he did.

It wasn't the sort of reply Akira had hoped for, though.

**I won't spill your secrets. But I can't give you want you want. I'm so sorry. I wish I could.**

Akira squeezed his phone in frustration. He'd felt like he'd made progress. He knew Goro wanted him back. He'd _felt_ it.

**Why not??**

This was the kind of question that before, Goro would never have answered. But now, he did.

**Maybe once you've read the last book, you'll understand.** That was no less frustrating a response. But Goro continued. **But I won't cut you off again. I like talking to you. I want to keep talking to you, right up until the end.**

**What do you mean, “the end”?**

Goro didn't reply to that, and dread settled in Akira's heart.

x x x

Akira had already arrived at the possibility that Goro failing in his mission to kill Akira might result in him being discarded—or killed—as useless. But no matter how much he pushed Goro, he never got a response on this subject, which only lead him to believe he was right, and that was what this was about.

Akira's immediate response was to call up Ohya and ask how to fake and publicize his death. Ohya squawked in disbelief over the phone and said, “I'm shady, but not that shady! Don't you have any friends who are more ethically and legally dubious than me?!”

Which was how Akira ended up at Untouchable after hours with Iwai sitting on the other side of the counter and giving him a scrutinizing glare.

“I heard Kaneshiro's been shot,” Iwai said, and the look he was giving Akira basically made it clear he was actually saying, _I know you shot Kaneshiro._ “They found a rifle in the building across the street that was definitely the murder weapon. You know what model?”

“You tell me,” Akira said, teasing him.

Iwai clicked his tongue. “You're really gonna play this game, kid? And now you're asking me how to disappear? Do you think I'm stupid?”

“I think you're smart enough that you don't need me spelling it out for you,” Akira replied.

“What makes you think I'm willing to help you?”

Akira leaned his weight on one leg, making heavy eye contact as he spoke. “Will money do it for you?”

“No.”

“Sexual favors?”

“ _No._ ” Was that a faint blush on Iwai's cheeks? Akira couldn't help but grin a little.

“Then tell me what you want,” Akira pressed. “And we can make a deal.”

Iwai's lips pressed into a hard line, and he stood up. “What I want ain't somethin' some nutjob with a gun can get me.”

“Try me,” Akira said, leaning in. “You know my secrets. I'll keep yours.”

Iwai seemed extremely reluctant, but Akira could tell there really was something he wanted, and he was willing to take risks to get it. He would talk.

Iwai sighed. “I want to go straight. I'm sick of selling guns to gangsters. But they've been twisting my arm for years and threatening my family. If you can get them off my ass— _without_ killing anyone, I am so done with that shit—then I'll help you fake your death, and sell you whatever you want, too. But then I'm out. Permanently.”

Akira blinked, then smiled. “I knew you were a good guy,” he said, and gave Iwai a friendly right jab.

Iwai scowled, but he was blushing a little. “Let me be clear: I think you're a nutjob. But Kaneshiro was a piece of shit, even for mobster. The enemy of my enemy, basically.”

“You've got yourself a deal, Iwai,” Akira replied with a grin.

x x x

Akira shared his plan of faking his death with Futaba, who was very much on board with the idea (for safety purposes), and she came up with a very non-lethal plan to deal with Iwai's harassers that involved constant robo-calls targeting both their cell phones and landlines at all hours of the day and night, as well as the cell phones and landlines of their girlfriends and their associates, saying things like _you know your man likes the smell of his own farts?_ Said in a robotic voice and looped on repeat. This continued even after they changed their phone numbers. Their cell phones also received endless spam text message after endless spam text message, reading things like, _Just so you know, the third season of Featherman was the best._

It was less than a week before every gangster involved crumbled and promised to leave Iwai alone if they would just _make those robo-calls stop,_ and so Iwai got Akira in contact with his connection in the coroner's office who proclaimed Akira dead by suicide from hanging in his apartment and wrote up all the paperwork. He also sold Akira a really dangerous amount of guns, ammo, and all sorts of related equipment—basically all the shit he had left in storage—and at a discounted price, too. He handed over the keys to a locker at a shady storage facility and said, “Have at 'er. I don't wanna look at this shit anymore,” and that was it. Well, this stuff was bound to be useful at some point.

Akira and Ryuji moved to a new apartment under Ryuji's name (Akira was not an official resident), and Akira got a new cell phone—bought and paid for using some dummy account with a fake name that Futaba set up.

**I changed my number,** he texted first thing to Goro. **It's Joker.**

**You shouldn't have done that,** Goro replied. It seemed he'd been keeping tabs on the situation. Well, no surprise, there.

**You're not even gonna thank me?**

A pause. **Thank you. But…you shouldn't have done that. It won't last forever. This isn't a solution.**

**But I bought you some time.**

**You did. But that's all.** Another pause, longer this time. **Thank you. I really don't deserve it.**

**I only want to hear you say that when you're on my cock,** Akira typed, and he meant it to be joking, but it ended up reading as angry to him. He _was_ angry.

**You don't get it. I'm not going to stop. I can't stop. Not yet.**

**Why do you have to be so fucking evasive?!** Akira mashed into his phone.

**I'm sorry.**

x x x

Now that Akira was moved into a new place and officially a dead man, it was time for this meeting that they'd all been putting off. They were in Futaba's room.

Futaba was curled up on her throne, Akira was on his back on the bed, hands behind his head as he looked at the ceiling, trying (not very hard) not to think about Goro every minute of the day, while Ryuji was on the floor, distracting himself with some chips. The mood was dour. Futaba's words hung in the room like a noxious fart.

_Kurohara L Pharma is under the direct control of Prime Minister Masayoshi Shido._

Only the crunching of potato chips filled the silence, until Ryuji spoke.“So…you want us…to assassinate the Prime Minister of Japan?”

“Basically…yeah,” Futaba said.

Another long silence.

“Are you fuckin' outta your mind?” Ryuji said, his tone disturbingly, eerily calm. His eyes were on his potato chips.

Futaba also seemed to be weirded out by Ryuji's attitude. It seemed they'd both expected him to be…louder about this. “Uh…are you okay, Ryuji?”

“Nope,” Ryuji said, crunching down another chip. “I'm just so beyond shock, all I can do is eat these chips. They're pretty good.”

_Crunch. Crunch. Crunch._

“Anyway…” Futaba continued, finally, “Takemi's shared with me basically everything about Kurohara L. the company was founded almost ten years ago to do pharmaceutical research on a class of mind control drugs, with the goal of using them to get into power.”

“So it's like MKUltra?” Akira said.

Ryuji turned to look at him. “Huh?”

“Oh, Ryuji,” Futaba said, the height of smug condescension. “You don't even know about Project MKUltra? The infamous CIA mind control program? Psh, normies.”

Ryuji just glared at her, crunching away.

“Anyway,” Futaba continued, “Thing was, due to general mismanagement and technological failures, they basically blew it. They never got the perfect mind control drug they were after—no surprise there. The drug they did end up with is unpredictable. Sometimes it causes amnesia, aggression, hallucinations, extreme emotional states,” Futaba listed off on her fingers. “Sometimes it just turns people in to vegetables. Sometimes it kills you, and sometimes it does nothing at all.”

Futaba leaned forward. “Anyway, I have dubbed this drug…” she paused for effect, “ _Banana Fish_.”

Akira snorted, and Ryuji looked confused. “Nerd stuff,” Akira explained.

“Riiight,” said Ryuji. “So how can this drug do all that stuff at once?”

“I dunno,” Futaba shrugged. “Too technical for me. Takemi said it depended greatly on the brain chemistry of whoever you're using it on, and on what other substances you use it in conjunction with, and in what amounts, and on the original mental state of the person. A whole bunch of factors. Point is, they blew it, they blew a lot of money on it, and they caused a lot of scandals when their research subjects started popping up with aftereffects weeks after they were experimented on. All the berserk incidents in the news were basically that. Oh, and a lot of their research subjects weren't exactly willing.”

“So if the drug doesn't work,” said Akira, “then what is the company doing now? Still trying to perfect it?”

“Takemi seems to think they've given up on that,” Futaba said, “but there's some other plan going on. She doesn't know what, though.”

“So then what?” Ryuji asked, finally done his chips and tossing the bag aside somewhere that was not properly in the trash can. Akira scowled at him, but Ryuji didn't notice. “What do we do with all this info?”

“There's one more thing,” Futaba said, her tone turning more serious. “Now I'm certain that the crow—the assassin who's been hitting a lot of major figures—is an assassin who's been working for Shido for years, and he's the one who killed my mother. So those two are targets one and two. I figure we should go for the easier one, first.”

Akira carefully maintained a neutral expression. He had expected this. “How do you plan to do that?”

Futaba looked thoughtful. “I figure the best way to handle it would be to figure out who he's gonna target next, and then let that person know they'll be targeted, and we set up a trap for him. That way, we can get some big cheese in our debt and take this guy out at the same time.”

“How will you know who he's going to target next, though?”

“I'm…still thinking about that part,” Futaba admitted.

Akira fell silent. He had already done all his thinking on this subject. But he had yet to come to any real decisions, and now, it was being made perfectly clear to him that he had to choose. He had to choose who he was going to lie to. He couldn't have it both ways.

“I think it might be Haru Okumura,” Akira said, finally.

“Interesting,” Futaba said, putting a hand to her chin. “Why her?”

“Her father was a target in the past,” Akira pointed out. “And with her power and connections, it'd be weird if she _hasn't_ started looking into how that happened. Plus, she's been funding Shido's opposition pretty hard.”

“Maybe,” said Futaba. “But that's still just a guess.”

It was more than just a guess. But Akira couldn't well tell her the reason he believed Haru Okumura was definitely next on the list.

It was that thing Ann had said, back at the art gallery. _“This is the second time I've seen Goro Akechi approaching her at an event. I think he might have a crush on her.”_

It wasn't proof. But Akira couldn't imagine any reason Goro would approach someone like her on multiple occasions, other than to spy on her for those purposes. It fit too well.

“I mean, we could just tip her off,” Akira suggested. “Contact her anonymously, say we suspect she's gonna be targeted, and she should be ready to catch an assassin. If nobody shows up, we lose nothing. If she catches someone, we can figure out what to do from there.”

“Yeah…maybe you're right… It'd be great if we could get someone with her influence to owe us one.” Futaba seemed lost in thought for a while, then suddenly said, “…Oh! I forgot, there's one more thing I wanted to tell you guys about. I wrote up this really cool app! I'm not sure how I'm gonna implement it, but I think it'll be key to taking out Shido.”

“What?” asked Ryuji.

“Oh, you wanna know? You're curious about this _cool,_ _awesome, badass_ program I, Futaba Sakura, came up with?”

“Please, tell me, Futaba,” Ryuji said, not even trying to sound sincere. He was used to her bragging about her programming skills. She was going to tell them whether they wanted to hear about it or not.

Futaba ignored his snark and said proudly, “I adapted it from the one I wrote to track Kaneshiro's phone. Basically, you can use it to totally hijack a phone and learn everything about it, and all you gotta do is use it to scan a QR code, or input a web address directly— _or_ you can even hide it in a seemingly-innocuous link, like a cat video or something.”

“Why do you need that if you could already hack Kaneshiro's phone?” Ryuji asked, confused.

“Oh, Ryuji, Ryuji, Ryuji.” Futaba shook her head in pity. “Do you think the Prime Minister of Japan uses a normal smart phone? No, he uses a special, highly-secured device. If you want access to it, you need direct, physical access to it. And if we have access to Shido's phone, we'll have a whole bunch of information that we can use.”

“How would we get access to his phone, though?” Akira asked.

“I dunno that part, yet…but I'll figure it out.” She spun her chair around in a full 360, then faced Akira again and said, “So hey, Akira, I've got this really funny cat video I wanna send you.”

Akira snorted. “Suddenly, I don't wanna open any links from you anymore.”

Futaba giggled. “Jk jk, I won't send you any fishy links, don't worry. I mean, your phone is already bugged.”

Akira just rolled his eyes. He knew Futaba wasn't about to do that.

x x x

Once Akira was home alone in his room with the door carefully shut, he texted Goro. **Okumura will be ready and waiting.**

There was a little wait before he got a reply. **You're lying to me in order to try to squeeze information from me.**

**I'm not,** Akira replied. **Don't be careless.**

**If you're not lying, you're stupid. You shouldn't be telling me this. You shouldn't be talking to me at all. You're making a huge mistake.**

Akira closed his eyes. He'd already said that to himself a hundred times over. He was being incredibly foolish. And yet. **I don't care. I don't want anything to happen to you.**

**Stop trying to help. You'll only make things worse.**

Akira's reply was a link to a video of a sad cat.

x x x

The email came at exactly 12:00AM on the dot. Akira was in the kitchen getting a snack, heard the ding from his room, and went back to find a message. It was from Ohya. She would sometimes send him news articles and such that she'd written, but Akira hadn't spoken with her for the past few weeks, so he was a little surprised to get an email from her.

Looking at the email, he realized very quickly that it wasn't one of her usual news links.

**Akira,**

**If you're receiving this email, it means I'm either incapacitated in some way, or more likely, just dead. When I started getting into some really dangerous information, I set this account up to send automatically if I didn't cancel it regularly. So I probably died about two weeks ago, and odds are, some assassin of Shido's did it.**

**Don't celebrate just yet, though. I'm dragging you down with me. I've attached all the important information I've been digging up, and probably some stuff that's not important, too. You sort through it.**

**Sadly, you're just about the only trustworthy person I know besides Lala, and I'm sure as hell not going to dump this on her. I have a feeling that you can do something with this, or at least pass it on to people who can. Poke Takemi a little harder. I think she's hiding a lot of good stuff—and you're good at getting people to trust you. I don't want this information to die with me, like what happened with Kayo.**

**Don't be too sad. It was either this, or liver failure, and this is a way cooler way to go. But if you want to show some sympathy for the devil, then come pour some booze on my grave—and give me the good stuff. No way am I staying sober in hell. Also, you better come in drag. You promised me you'd do that again sometime.**

— **Ohya**

Akira stared at his phone. This didn't feel real. But he knew Ohya would never send something like this as a prank, or by mistake. It was just hard to believe.

He sat down on the bed, ignoring the sandwich he'd brought from the kitchen.

He was surprised at how calm he was about it. That was probably just denial. But he couldn't afford to be in denial about reality—not now.

He texted Goro. **No love for journalists, huh?** The most forced levity of his life. It wasn't funny.

**No comment.**

**Fuck you.**

**I told you, you should have killed me.**

**You're going to turn around and lay responsibility for this on my shoulders? You don't feel any guilt at all, do you?**

**My feelings are irrelevant.**

**That's such bullshit and you know it.**

**Why are you so angry? You knew what would happen when you let me go.**

Was he angry? Akira looked back on his texts and realized they certainly read that way. But there was just nothing in him. He couldn't answer that question. **Why did you do it?**

Akira thought for sure Goro wouldn't reply, but he did, and surprisingly quickly.

**Because I'm stupid and selfish.**

**Well, then we have something in common,** Akira replied, and as expected, Goro said nothing in return.

Akira dropped the phone on the bed and sunk into the covers. This had been a lot easier back when they'd been lying to each other. Now, he didn't know how to feel anymore.

 


	10. The Most Desperate Place

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent ten minutes staring at the screen trying to think of a title, so I just went with Nine Inch Nails lyrics again. This one is from The Big Come Down.
> 
> A popular type of phone scam in Japan is the “ore ore” fraud, where someone calls you up and when you ask, “Who is it?” they'll be like, “It's me, it's me!” and pretend like they're someone you know. It's so common, it's like a cliche of a scam at this point.

 

Goro had already worked on and thrown out so many drafts of this stupid book. He'd had such a clear vision for the story, but over the past few months, it had just been getting derailed over and over. He was behind schedule. His editor was becoming progressively more frazzled.

And now, he'd just done something his editor definitely would have a fit over, if she found out. This was a clear breach of contract.

He'd sent Akira a pre-release copy of the the final book in the _Bloody Justice_ series, _True Justice_. It was mostly finalized. There might be some changes, but it was largely hammered out at this point, finally.

Akira was a faster reader than he'd expected, however. He replied later the same day with the message,

**I hate it.**

Goro's expression twisted in a wry grin. **I thought you'd say that.**

**The ending sucks. Both Akai and Sana are totally OOC. I hate it, I hate it, I HATE IT.**

**Did you really expect the series to have a happy ending? Please.** Goro leaned back against his seat on the train. It wasn't long to his stop.

**It didn't have to end that way. Sana didn't have to make that choice.**

**I wanted it to end that way,** Goro replied—probably the biggest lie of his life.

**Don't give me this vague shit. Where are you? Let me come see you. I need to know what's going on.**

Goro stared at his phone. He couldn't bring himself to write _goodbye._ That was just too corny, just too dramatic, given their relationship. What did they have, anyway? They'd known each other for a few months—and had hardly ever met in person. They'd texted some. They'd fucked twice. They weren't even in an actual relationship. Goro had just worked it up to be more than it was, all in his head. This sort of infatuation was a lust-driven temporary insanity, and even if it felt good in the moment, he knew it wouldn't have gone anywhere, anyway. He had to be realistic about this.

 **I think you'll learn to love that book,** was all he said, and then it was his stop. He got off the train, left the station, and walked to Shido's apartment.

x x x

Shido's security guards being present in the room let Goro know that something was up. Usually, Shido saw him alone. Not like he hadn't expected this.

“Is this about what happened with Okumura?” Goro asked smoothly.

“Partly,” Shido said. He was dressed like he'd just come back from work, looking crisp and professional as he stood in his living room. He was making to look relaxed and in control, but knowing him for as long as he had, Goro knew he was tense. “You know I don't appreciate failure. But this is worse than failure.”

“Worse than failure?” Goro asked back, maintaining a calm facade. He wondered if Shido could see right through him as easily as he could see through Shido. Probably.

Shido's eyes narrowed just slightly. “You're going to play coy with me, Goro?”

Goro smiled and spread his hands. “I can't be coy if I honestly don't know what you're talking about.”

Shido clicked his tongue, letting a hint of irritation show through. “I thought we were past that stage, Goro. It seems I was wrong.”

The two security guards flanking Shido moved. Goro tensed, but hesitated to run, and that gave them enough time to grab him. One man restrained his arms behind his back, while the other began rifling through his pockets, pulled out his cell phone, and offered it to Shido.

As Shido began swiping through his phone, Goro's mouth went dry. He hadn't anticipated this part.

“Did you assume I would never keep tabs on you, Goro? I didn't think you were that naive. It's cute,” Shido said, but his tone belied his anger. “You've been texting Akira Kurusu for quite some time—even after he was supposed to be dead. After _you_ were supposed to have finished him.”

“Akira Kurusu? Where does it say that? He's not in my list of contacts,” Goro said, but his heart was already pounding. It had to be obvious he was lying.

“Of course not. You're not that stupid, at least. But the content of your conversations recently makes it pretty obvious who _Joker_ is.” Shido stepped up close to him. “And I don't take betrayal well.”

Goro closed his eyes and willed himself to calm. “Don't make assumptions. Joker is someone else. Kurusu escaped me, that's all, and he faked his death to avoid getting hit again. I was planning another attempt.”

Shido frowned. “The more of my time you waste with pointless lies, the angrier I get, Goro. There's nothing you can say to protect your… _friend._ He's a thorn in my side, and he's going to die, regardless, whether it's you who does it or not. But being that things are like this, I'm at least going to squeeze a little more work out of you, to make up for what you've done. You're going to do one last job for me.”

It was at this point that Goro finally realized what Shido was planning to do. He kicked back at the black suit restraining him from behind, but the second one grabbed him by the throat and squeezed until he stilled.

Shido turned around and went to the coffee table in his living room to open up a case that lay there, and when he turned around, he was holding a syringe filled with a dark liquid. Goro's eyes locked on the syringe. He'd seen that substance before. He knew what it was.

“I'm sure you recognize this, Goro. Well, I suppose this part is unnecessary, really, but let's just call this personal vindication.” Shido grinned, but it was far, far different from the grin he showed at press conferences. It was a lot closer to the sadistic look he got on his face when Goro was on his knees in front of him. Absently, Goro wondered if he was hard. His eyes flicked down. Apparently not.

“I didn't know you were this petty,” Goro quipped, and it sounded strained, even to himself. “When's the last time you wasted your time on anything that wouldn't gain you something?”

“When's the last time my most trusted confidante stabbed me in the back so he could send ass photos a man I ordered him to kill?” Shido snarled. He was the most furious Goro had ever seen him.

Goro was startled. All this time, and he'd never really believed he was anything but a tool to Shido. How ironic he should discover that only now. He had to laugh. “Ha-ha… I'm so flattered you thought of me that way,” he said, only half-sarcastically.

“After all I've done for you,” Shido hissed. “I hope his dick was worth it, you fucking faggot.”

Shido—and others—had called him that a million times before, and he was used to it, he expected it, he _got off_ to it, but for some reason, this time, it hurt. His eyes dropped. He'd always known Shido found him disgusting. It wasn't as if this was a surprise. But now, if he was being honest, he would rather hear that shit coming out of Akira's mouth.

“Oh, it was,” he heard himself say quietly. “And it's a lot bigger than yours.”

He was expecting the punch across the face, too. Shido wasn't a young man anymore, and he was a politician, not an athlete. Goro recovered quickly. “He hits a lot harder than you do, too. What was that supposed to be?” he sneered.

Shido's face was twisted in rage, and it was honestly a sight to see. Where had that calm, controlled mastermind gone?

“Joke all you like,” Shido said, “but it won't change a thing. You're going to be the bait that gets your boyfriend killed. Suck on that in your last few moments of lucidity.”

Goro gave a bitter smirk. “Do you really think he'll come for me? Come on. You know me.”

“Maybe he does, maybe he doesn't. You'll both die, either way.” He stepped toward Goro, and tucked his cell phone back into his pants pocket. “Here. I hope it reminds you of what a foolish mistake you've made, turning your back on me.”

Shido stabbed him in the neck with the needle and injected the whole thing.

x x x

Akira was at the end of his rope. He couldn't stand any more of this fucking vague nonsense from Goro. Every bone in his body was telling him that something was going to happen to him. He was at home, staring at his computer, looking at the software tracking Goro's phone that he'd wheedled out of Futaba. He could go to him right now, if he so chose. He would then have to explain to Goro exactly how he'd found him, which would be an extremely trust-destroying act (hacking his phone in the first place was an extremely trust-destroying act, but if his life was in danger, it was justified, right?), and that was the only thing stopping him that moment.

There wasn't much on Goro's phone that would be hints. This was clearly a guy who preferred to browse on his PC, and he made very little in the way of calls and texts. He'd received a call from some number telling him to come over, they'd spoken very briefly, and then had gone to some apartment in Azabu. A wealthy neighborhood. Was he meeting someone? Who?

Akira had just about convinced himself to just go the fuck over there when his phone dinged. He jumped. It was from Goro.

Or so he'd thought.

**If you want to see Goro Akechi again, come to this address by midnight tomorrow night. If you don't show up, you can assume he's dead.**

x x x

Oddly enough, after the initial moment of panic, Akira now felt calmer. This was certain, and this was actionable. It was, in a way, preferable to worrying about maybes and what-ifs.

The first thing Akira did was call up Ryuji. “Ryuji, leave your bike at the track and go rent a car. And don't tell Futaba.”

“What?!” Ryuji yelped over the phone. “Um, what for?”

“For driving, of course.”

“I get that much! But uh, I'm kinda shit at driving a car, y'know. And what the fuck is going on?”

“I'll tell you later. Just do it. And sign the car under my fake ID. I'll swing by to sign the papers. I just have to make some calls, first.”

“Wait, Akira—”

Akira hung up.

x x x

Akira wasn't going to do as those instructions said. Waiting until midnight the next day would obviously be walking into a trap, and he wasn't a one-man army. He needed the advantage of surprise. He had the location of Goro's phone, which hadn't moved from that apartment building in Azabu. It wasn't a hundred percent, but there was a damn good chance that Goro was still there. He was going to make that gamble.

This wasn't something he could do safely from a sniper's position. He had to physically get in there. What the fuck was he going to do, just burst in like Schwarzenegger? The apartment would obviously be guarded. The building would have security. What could he do, without Futaba's help?

Akira scrolled through the inventory list of everything that was in the weapons locker he'd gotten from Iwai. Handguns, rifles, big guns, small guns, enough ammo to shoot down a few whales, various accessories and related tools, a couple of actual grenades (not for indoor use)… His eyes lit on some useful-looking items. Bulletproof vest. Gas masks. _…Gas masks?_ Akira tapped his finger on his chin thoughtfully.

He called up Takemi. Fortunately, she picked up quickly.

“Takemi, do you have access to any chemical weapons?” he asked bluntly, then added, “non-lethal? And also, tonight?”

There was a moment of stunned silence before she answered, “We are _not_ talking about this over the fucking phone,” and hung up.

He got a text shortly after that, though, telling him a time and place to meet up. Akira grinned.

x x x

It was a crowded bar, the sort of place where you'd have to lean over and talk right into someone's ear to be heard. Takemi must have picked it for that reason. She slid in next to Akira at a booth, and as she did so, pushed a bag toward him underneath the table. “Glad to see you back from the dead,” she commented with a sly grin. She'd been informed. Then she got straight to the point, leaning in to speak in his ear. “It's an experimental liquid agent that quickly evaporates into a gas. Don't open the bags until you plan to use it, or it'll evaporate in five minutes.”

“What does it do, though?” Akira asked.

“It's basically like tear gas,” she said, and there was a hint of a smile in her eyes. “I've written some more details on a note in the bag. You're going to have to find your own method of expelling it, though. You have to get some sort of spray device. Also, you need to dilute it with water, or it'll be _real_ strong.”

Somehow, going in with a plant spritzer didn't seem like the best idea. “You can't just like…gas a room with it?”

Takemi shook her head. “You need something that sprays and disperses it around for full effect. That bag is enough to do about fifty meters around, if it's dispersed well. But if you just throw it as one blob, it's only going to be effective for about a meter around.”

Akira had considered this issue, and he had an idea. But it was perhaps a little crazy. “Could you run it through a sprinkler system?”

Takemi blinked. “Sure, I don't see why not. And it evaporates so quickly, it wouldn't leave residue in the pipes…” a wicked smile curved her lips. “In fact, I think that's a great idea.”

Akira didn't have any time to waste, and Takemi seemed to understand that, as she shooed him off fairly quickly. “Put it to good use,” she said, smiling at him.

“I will,” he said, smiling back at her, and it hurt to break her trust, and she wasn't the only one whose trust he'd broken in the name of Goro Akechi. It was getting to be a hell of a list.

x x x

The next person Akira called up was Yuuki Mishima.

“Who is this?” Yuuki asked.

That was when Akira recalled that he had a new number. And also that he was supposed to be dead. Welp. Time for some bullshit. Hopefully, Mishima didn't recognize his voice. They'd only hung out a handful of times. He shouldn't recognize him. Right? “It's me, it's me.”

“I'm not _that_ dumb,” Yuuki answered bitingly. “Goodbye.”

“I'm joking, I'm joking!” Akira rushed to stop him from hanging up. “Actually, I'm a friend of Ann's.” Mixing truth and lies was always a solid plan. “She said you're a plumber, and I actually needed to fix some stuff in my building, and I'm kinda broke, so I was hoping for some free over-the-phone advice?”

“Huh?” Yuuki seemed genuinely startled. “Um…I guess…but I dunno about doing it for free… I mean, it's kinda my job…”

“I'll hook you up on a date with Ann,” Akira wheedled.

“W-will you really?!” A cough. “I mean, can you actually do that? Somehow, I don't think she'll go out with me.”

“I can totally do it, trust me. Me and Ann are tight.” Well, Ryuji was. Close enough.

“Hmm…” Yuuki was clearly hopeful, though, as he gave in quickly. “What are you trying to do?”

Akira was now sitting at his computer, searching up various details about apartment building plumbing. It was kinda complicated. “Well, uh…I was trying to test the sprinkler system in my apartment, and I don't think it's working.”

“Huh? Can't you just call your landlord about that?”

“Naw, my landlord is a disaster. She never does anything around here. I've got to do it myself. What if there's a fire?”

“Hmm, well…” Yuuki started explaining things, and Akira slowly tried to route it around in a direction that was useful to his ends, until eventually, Mishima said, “Wait…your voice sounds kinda familiar…wait, I don't think I got your name?”

Akira was momentarily frozen silent, but Yuuki kept talking. “Haven't we met before? You sound kinda like….” he gasped. “You sound just like Akira!”

Akira started sweating. He paused for a minute, considering what to say.

But Yuuki just kept barrelling on without him. “Th-this isn't…Akira's ghost, is it?”

Akira pulled his head away from the phone and smothered a snicker, then turned back again. “You weren't supposed to know, Yuuki. You shouldn't have said that,” he said, adding a menacing, hopefully wispy-sounding tone to his voice.

A little yelp on the other end. “I-I-I'm sorry! I'll appease you! Please don't haunt me! I'll go clean your grave every weekend!” A moan. “Oh shit, I knew it, I got _great misfortune_ at the shrine this year… it's because I cheaped out on offerings, isn't it?? I only tossed in fifty yen, and the gods are mad at me!”

Akira had to turn away from his phone again and cover his hand with his mouth for a few moments. Yuuki sounded genuinely terrified. “We're angry, Yuuki. And I've been sent here to tell you you must do penance.”

A whimper. “Anything, I'll do anything! Please don't haunt me. I can't handle anything like that. Oh god, they're coming through the phone lines. They always come through the phone lines.”

Impulsively, Akira made a dry, _Grudge-_ style long croak into the phone, and was rewarded with a shriek.

“I may call you again, Yuuki,” Akira said in a hushed tone. “And when I do, you'd better tell me what I need to know. The other side demands plumbing advice. And _more_.” Then he hung up, and laughed until he cried.

x x x

Akira sat in the front passenger seat of the rental car Ryuji had picked up. They were parked outside Iwai's storage locker, and Akira had already strapped on the bullet-proof vest and pulled his hoodie over it. He had two handguns strapped under his hoodie, pockets full of extra magazines, a knife in each boot, a bag full of various supplies, and sunglasses, a ballcap and sick mask on his face.

His phone was telling him Goro's phone was still in the same location. Hopefully, Goro was there, too.

Ryuji was similarly disguised. “This is still pretty fucking' unbelievable to me,” he said, hands on the wheel as he glanced down at Akira's set-up. “What the fuck are you doing? You're trying to go rescue the assassin who tried to kill you? Who is also Goro Akechi? Are you fuckin' with me?!”

Akira still wasn't sure if it had been wise to tell Ryuji everything, but he wasn't sure he could do this alone. He didn't want to. Ryuji was a terrible liar, and was bound to spill things eventually, but hopefully, shit would be sorted by that point. Right now, he had to deal with the immediate problem.

“I'm not fucking with you,” Akira said flatly. “That's what's happening. And we can't tell Futaba. She'll kill him.”

“Of course she'll fuckin' kill him!” Ryuji flung his arms out dramatically. “That guy is—he's the whole fuckin' point of all this!”

“I know,” Akira looked down at his lap. “But his employer's decided he's not useful anymore. So the enemy of my enemy. Right?” This was not Akira's rationale, but it was hopefully rationale that would convince Ryuji.

“His employer, who is the Prime Minister of Japan…” Ryuji leaned his face against the steering wheel and moaned. “Why did I get myself into this…”

“'Cause you're my best friend, and you support me whenever you can?” Akira said with a hopeful grin.

“If we both end up dead,” Ryuji said with a scowl, “I'm haunting you so fuckin' hard.”

“How can you haunt me if we're both dead? But we can haunt Yuuki Mishima together.”

Ryuji gave him a puzzled look. “What?”

“Never mind. Let's just get going.”

x x x

Ryuji parked in the back in the alleyway, in a position that was probably-definitely illegal—but hopefully, they'd be out of here before he got towed. Akira had already scoped out the place via street view, but a certain degree of this was going to have to be played by ear.

Before going, Akira checked his headset, saying to Ryuji, “Can you hear me?”

“Yeah, loud and clear. Let's get this over with.”

It was late enough at night that there wasn't going to be anyone conveniently walking through the front doors. So Akira was going to have to get into the building the old-fashioned way.

He picked a random unit number and buzzed it. No response. They were probably asleep. He tried a few more before he got a response. “Hey, I just live on the third floor. I forgot my keys. Would you mind letting me in?”

That was the easy part. Inside the building, the lights were on, and the hallways were empty. Good.

On the ground level, he found the boiler room, and the lock on that door was standard and easily pickable—most people didn't expect their pipes to be stolen, after all.

Staring up at the mess of pipes all around the room and going up through the ceiling in various directions, Akira picked out the spot Yuuki had told him was the intake for the sprinklers. He brought out an adjustable wrench, turned off the water, removed a section of pipe and replaced it with a plastic tube filled with a bag of the chemical, duct taped the shit out of everything, prayed it would hold, and turned the water back on. It didn't seem to be leaking, for now.

“Plumbing room done,” he told Ryuji.

The next issue was the elevator. This was one of those fancy, high security buildings where you needed a floor key to go up to the higher floors. The easiest way to bypass this was to pick the elevator lock. Like most elevators, this one had a tubular lock, which wasn't the sort Akira had the most practice with, but after a solid five minutes of fumbling (during which fortunately nobody came in) he managed to unlock the elevator, giving him permission to hit any floor. “The elevator was pretty easy.”

He walked down the quiet, well-lit hallway of the fifteenth floor, approaching what he was fairly sure was the right apartment.

There was a line of light underneath the door. The occupants were awake. That made him certain this was the right one.

“I'm up by the apartment,” he informed Ryuji. “So far, it's all going good.”

“So far,” Ryuji muttered.

Akira took of the sick mask and stuffed it into his pocket, pulled the gas mask out of his bag and fitted it snugly over his head. He got out his basic lockpicks, too, before slinging the pack over his back again and cautiously approaching the apartment. This one was a regular door lock. Easy. He picked it quietly, and opened the door as slowly as he could, cracking it open just slightly. He couldn't really see jack, especially not with the mask on. He would just have to bust in.

Akira took a deep breath, drew one of his handguns, then pushed open the door, eyes immediately going to the ceiling. He saw one, two ceiling sprinklers, one in the kitchen and one in the living room, and shot both of them just as a burly-looking man in a black suit sitting in the hallway not a couple meters away stood from the chair, where it seemed he had been nodding off, and reached into his jacket.

Both sprinklers exploded into liquid that hopefully wasn't just water, and Akira shot the man in the head before he could reach his gun. Akira ducked back out the door and threw himself to the ground, propping the door open a crack so he could hear what was happening inside. An apartment building this fancy would be fairly soundproof. Two shots went through the door and over his head, and Akira waited for someone to come out, but nobody did.

He waited for a minute, and then heard a yell of, “Agh, my eyes!”

“The gas worked,” Akira said over the line, then got to his feet and burst through the door. There was one man in the kitchen with his hands on his eyes. Shot to the head. There was another in the living room, squinting and firing the wrong way as Akira circled around the kitchen island and away from his line of fire—shot to the head. Akira crouched down and listened to see if there was anyone else as he loaded a fresh magazine. That had been three. Where there any more? All he could hear was the reflexive death spasms of the man by the door and the spritzing whir of the sprinklers.

Akira peeked out of the kitchen and around to the right, down a hallway with two doors and looked like they belonged to bedrooms, or maybe one was a bathroom. Whoever was in there wouldn't have been hit by the sprinklers. And he didn't see Goro in the kitchen or living room, so he had to be in one of those two rooms.

It was better not to wait around. He didn't want them calling for help. Akira stood up and edged down the hallway. He pressed himself against one wall, flung open the door, and peeked around—and saw a toilet. An empty bathroom.

One more door, then. Pressing himself against the wall, he took a few even breaths, then flung open the door.

Immediately, a shot tore through the wall to hit him in the back like a punch, and Akira felt extremely grateful for the bulletproof vest. Akira swung around in front of the doorway and shot the man pressed against the wall opposite him at point-blank in the chest, then in the head. He dropped.

That was when he found Goro, tied to a chair at the back of the room. He was wearing casual clothes and no shoes, and looked a little dishevelled, but otherwise, okay. He was slumped to one side and looked unconscious, or asleep. Akira resisted the urge to rush to him, and instead swept the room for threats, checking the closet, then going out back through the apartment and making sure he hadn't missed anything. There was no one else in the apartment, and he told Ryuji so. He returned to the bedroom.

He tucked his gun away in his holster and approached Goro, putting his hands on his shoulders. Goro jerked awake, head jolting to look up at him. His eyes narrowed a little, and he coughed. Some of the tear gas was probably wafting into here, too. Akira kept his gas mask on.

“Goro, hey. It's me, Akira.” Akira squeezed his shoulders in what he hoped was a comforting way. “Let's get out of here.”

The look in Goro's eyes was strange. A little unfocused. “Akira…?” He said, as if he were confused.

“There's some tear gas in here, sorry,” Akira said, and he went straight to cutting Goro's bonds with his knife. Freed, Goro rose to his feet unsteadily, as if dizzy. “Hey, are you okay?” Akira asked him, coming to his side to slide an arm under his shoulders and support him. Goro leaned on him heavily, and Akira could feel him panting. “Did you get beat up? You don't look so good.”

Goro looked at him through the gas mask, and his eyes were swimming. But before Akira's uneasy feeling could even register into anything decisive, Goro yanked the knife Akira had used to cut his ropes out of his hands and thrust it at his torso.

The knife ripped through his hoodie and scraped across the bulletproof vest, and Akira was too stunned to respond as Goro wound up again for a second stab that went straight down through Akira's undefended thigh, then ripped out again.

Akira didn't even have the time to wonder just what the hell was going on. He just reacted. He screamed and staggered back, but stayed on his feet, leaning all his weight on the other leg, and when Goro came in for a third stab, Akira caught his arm and strained against it, pushing the knife away from himself.

Was it just his imagination, or was Goro stronger, now? He didn't feel like it had been this hard to overpower him, last time.

Akira kept Goro's left wrist firmly in his left hand's grip, pointing the knife away from himself, and made to use his right to wrench the knife from Goro's grasp, but before he could, Goro kneed him right in the stabbed thigh, sending him crumbling to the ground with another yell, then kicked him in the leg again when he was down.

Goro leaped down on him, holding the blade in both hands to stab down at his face, and Akira rolled out of the way. The knife stabbed uselessly into the flooring, going in surprisingly deep. That had been a stupid move. Goro wasn't fighting with a mind to strategy. He was brawling like a drunk at a bar, all wide swings and anger. As he was pulling the knife out of the floor, Akira kicked the blade with the boot sole of his good foot, sending it skittering across the room and under the bed.

Goro's response was to grab Akira by the ankle and heft him up with one arm, and _shit_ he was definitely stronger, now. He had Akira dangling upside down and with most of his weight off the ground as he wound up a kick, aimed at Akira's face. Akira just barely managed to push himself out of the way with his arms.

With a wince, Akira curled up to draw his second knife from the boot on his injured leg, which was hanging limply in front of him, and with a mental apology, he sliced at Goro's shin in a way he hoped would not do permanent damage. Goro hardly even seemed to notice it. Akira cut him again, and dodged another kick to the head. Shit. What the hell was going on, here?

He could feel the blood from the wound in his thigh oozing down his side and toward his shoulder. Bleeding in this direction was so strange.

Akira wasn't going to use his guns—but it seemed he couldn't afford to be gentle. He wound up, and stabbed down through Goro's bare foot and as deep as he could into the floor. Goro screamed and dropped him, and Akira managed to roll aside and limp awkwardly to his feet again. He was feeling lightheaded. Oh, yeah. He'd been stabbed in the thigh. There were important blood vessels in there, weren't there?

Goro managed to yank the knife out of his foot, then swung at Akira's face with the blade again. It was wide, sloppy, and Akira caught his wrist easily, but he was feeling weaker, now, and it was harder to push the knife away. Goro's right hand came toward him in a punch, and Akira caught that, too, but just holding on was a strain, and Goro pushed him back and back until the back of Akira's knees hit the bed, then shoved him down onto it. The knife sank into the mattress next to Akira's head.

Goro's knee dug into Akira's wounded thigh, leaning in, and Akira cried out again, but kept a grip on Goro's left wrist, which held the knife.

He failed to keep a hold on Goro's other hand, however, and now that it was freed, it ripped off Akira's gas mask, exposing his face, and his headset went with it, flung across the room. _Shit._ There was no calling for help, now. Come to think of it, he hadn't heard Ryuji's voice for a while now. Had it cut out or something?

Immediately, Akira's eyes started watering, and he was forced to squint. His nose and his mouth stung. Without the barrier of the gas mask between them, he could see clearly that Goro's eyes were half-shut, too, red and puffy, tears streaming from his eyes and snot from his nose. But even so, Akira could see a sliver of his eyes there, the pupils round and large. “Akira,” Goro said false-calm, smiling. He captured Akira's free arm and pressed it down, and Akira struggled, but he was weakening. This wasn't good. His leg felt slimy, all the way into his sock. How much blood had he lost?

“Akira,” Goro said again, harsher this time. “You just don't know how to leave well enough alone, do you? How many times do I have to tell you to stay the _fuck_ out of my business?!” He dug into Akira's leg with his knee again, and Akira saw spots in his vision, gasping. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a big splatter of blood on the floor. Did it belong to the man he'd shot? Or to Goro? Or to himself? He wasn't sure.

“They did…something to you…” Akira gasped out. He was drugged, or something. He clearly wasn't in his right mind.

“It doesn't matter,” Goro spat. “What matters is that I give you what's _coming_ to you.” Another shove at his leg. Akira couldn't even scream anymore.

All of Akira's strength and concentration was focused on his right hand, clenched around Goro's wrist, keeping the knife down in the bed and away from his face.

“What did I…ever do to you?” Akira wheezed.

“ _You know!_ ” Goro's grip around his left wrist was frighteningly tight. Akira could feel his bones creaking. “You _like_ hurting me, you fucking sadist. Nothing ever hurt before you showed up. I was fine. I was used to it. But you just _had_ to _prod_ and _prod_ and _prod—_ ” Goro emphasized each word with a dig at Akira's leg, and with the final dig, Akira just about passed out. He had to hold onto the knife. He had to keep hold of the knife.

“I never…meant to…hurt you…” His vision was starting to blur. Even talking was becoming a strain. He could feel his grip on the knife weakening.

“That's the fucking problem.” Was it the tear gas, or was Goro crying? Akira didn't have enough mental energy left to tell. “Fuck, I hate you.” Goro leaned down and kissed him roughly, then bit his lower lip until it bled, sucking at the wound, then he pulled up again to look down at Akira with wild, red eyes. “I'm going to kill you, like Shido told me to, and then maybe he'll take me back. Maybe things can go back to the way they used to be.”

“Can't…put a chick…back in the egg,” Akira croaked.

“ _Fuck_ you!” Goro cried, and he ripped the knife out of Akira's helpless grasp, raising it up in the air. “Fuck you fuck you fuck you!” He was sounding progressively more unhinged, more hysterical as he went on, stabbing the knife into the bed repeatedly to emphasize his words. “You don't get to decide anything for me! You don't control me!”

“…Neither does…Shido,” Akira said, all that was left of his voice a whisper.

Goro paused, knife in the air, but at this point, he was just a blurry outline in Akira's vision. He heard sounds, banging, footsteps, as someone burst into the apartment. A familiar voice.

“…Ryuji?” Akira muttered. Suddenly, he couldn't feel Goro's weight on him anymore. His eyes flew open. He saw the flash of the knife, and he tried to roll over, but couldn't get far. “Don't hurt him…Ryuji! He's…drugged…don't hurt him!” He kept mumbling, trying to push himself up. But it was too late. His consciousness sank into darkness.

 


	11. Turn Off the Sun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's chapter title is more NIN lyrics.
> 
> Edit: I can't stop with the stupid wordplay. 6 in Japanese can be read as “roku”, or “rok” depending on the word, so rok-E is loki haha you get it.
> 
> Sorry for the looooong delay, I'm totally committed to finishing this fic, I promise. It's almost done, anyway.
> 
> I re-read the last few chapters to refresh my memory though, and maaaaaan I don't even think I was consciously ripping off Saezuru Tori wa Habatakanai, but hermmm. If you like reading about masochistic sluts with self-destructive habits, go read that. I've been rereading Saezuru recently, and I suddenly realized I write Yashiro traits into half my fic. I-it's a really good manga, okay?
> 
> I was, however, very consciously ripping off Togainu no Chi, so if you like woobies getting high on murder drugs and attempting to kill their boyfriends, then play that. Whatever, it's fanfiction, right? Originality shmoriginality.

 

When Akira woke up, he was in his own bed, a familiar face was hovering over him. Takemi. He blinked and looked around. There was an IV in his left arm, connected to a bag of saline solution hanging over his head from a hook on the wall. There was an empty bag beside it, too, with a little red left over inside.

The first thing out of his mouth was, “Where's Goro?”

“He's alive. He's in your friend _Skull's_ bed,” Takem i assured him, emphasizing the code name with a nearly imperceptible eye-roll. “You need to stay where you are,” she said, seemingly anticipating just what he was about to do. “You are so, _so_ lucky that I have connections that could get me some blood. You needed a transfusion. Stay in bed.” She gave him an intimidating doctor glare, and Akira did as he was told. “Frankly, I'd rather put you in a hospital, but I understand your position. So let me tell you the situation. You opened an artery in your leg, and the muscle has been damaged, too. You're not to even _think_ about putting weight on it for two weeks. Full recovery in six, _maybe._ I managed to nab some antibiotics for you, so you won't be getting an infection—probably—but conditions here aren't as sanitary as they could be.” Akira gave her a sheepish grin, which she ignored.

“What about Goro?” Akira asked.

“His foot actually isn't too bad. The stab was lengthwise, between his bones and ligaments, so it shouldn't affect him much in the long term. He has some muscle damage, too, almost like muscle tears from a strenuous workout, though rest should heal that. And...” Takemi frowned. “He was drugged with agent 6-E.”

Akira gave her a blank look.

“I believe you and your friends prefer to call it banana fish,” Takemi said dryly. “Isn't that Salinger? Anyway. He was drugged with agent 6-E, compounded with some other elements that I couldn't identify without proper testing. There have been many iterations of the drug, to various effects. I suspect that one may have been intended to increase aggression, at least temporarily.” Takemi considered, then continued. “He's alive, and the chances of fatality drop rapidly with every day that he continues to be. It will most likely stay in his system for about two weeks, though some cases have gone up to a month. And since he's been violent, you need to keep him restrained. Skull has tied him up in a safe manner. But he should be monitored to ensure he doesn't escape, or more likely, hurt himself.”

“...Chances of fatality?” Akira sort of stopped listening to everything she'd said after that point.

Takemi gave him a grim look. “I'll be honest. It differs so wildly from person to person, I can't give you a reasonable estimation of his chances. You just need to be hopeful, but realistic.”

Akira closed his eyes and tried not to panic. “I want to see him.”

“No,” Takemi said immediately. “You're not getting up. Absolutely not. Do you want to open your stitches and bleed out? Because that's what will happen. I don't have another bag for transfusion. You're lucky you're even alive, Akira. _Don't_ push it. Not to mention that I hear it was your presence that agitated him before. All effort should be made to keep from upsetting his mental state. He'll likely forget most of what happens, but another violent episode would do him and anyone who has to deal with him harm. So _don't. Push. It._ ” Takemi glared death at him, and when she determined Akira was sufficiently cowed, her expression softened. “You were lucky, though. And—he's doing as well as we can expect, given the circumstances. So you can be hopeful.” 

“So what's happening to him?” Akira asked.

Takemi pushed down his blankets and checked the wound on his leg as she spoke. “He seems to be reacting fairly typically, which is to say, a sort of psychosis. He may believe himself to be in situations in which he's not, or address people as if they're someone else. It comes and goes, and becomes less intense and less frequent as time passes. His initial reaction is  _probably_ as extreme as it will get. Probably.” Takemi declared his leg decent, then took his vitals—with one of those squeezable blood pressure cuffs, a normal home thermometer, and her fingers on his pulse—proclaimed him to be doing well. She left the room, and Ryuji came in to replace her.

Ryuji looked extremely relieved, and also like he wanted a hug but was afraid he shouldn't be doing it.

“It was my leg that got stabbed,” Akira told him, spreading his arms. “You can hug me.” 

Ryuji immediately leaned over and squeezed him a little too hard. “Aghhhh! Why didn't you call me for help?!  _I_ just about died out there, freaking out!”

“I, uh...didn't think about it until it was too late, and my radio got ripped off,” Akira said weakly over Ryuji's shoulder. 

“I'm gonna fuckin' duct-tape that thing to your head, next time,” Ryuji growled.

“That wouldn't look very badass,” Akira said, but he was grateful for Ryuji's concern. “So what happened?”

Ryuji gave him one last squeeze, then pulled away. “I heard all sorts of shit going on over the line, so I was freaking out. I uh...” his eyes jerked away, “kinda broke the glass doors at the entrance to get in,” he mumbled, “but fortunately, you left the elevator unlocked, so I got up easy, and I went for the door with the bullet holes in it.” He shrugged. “By the time I got up there, the gas was mostly gone, I wrestled down Akechi, whacked him in the head, tied up your leg, and called Takemi right away. She told me how to do the first aid stuff over the phone. I think she was maybe expecting something to happen, 'cause she was awake and ready to go with her kit when I called her.”

Figured. Akira  _had_ heavily implied to her that he was gonna go cause some shit that night. Akira was extremely grateful. He'd have to do something to show his thanks. Well, he could imagine she would just tell him,  _thank me by killing the Prime Minister,_ though. He quirked a grin at the thought.

“And just so you know, I carried your ass out of there. What are you, eighty kilos? Ninety?” Ryuji added.

“I'm not even seventy-five, Ryuji.”

“You sure fucking felt like a hundred.”

“Maybe you just need to hit the gym more, Ryuji. You're looking a little squishy.”

“Are you gonna say that to the guy who just saved your life?”

“Hell yeah. You're looking squishy as Morgana after a sushi platter. And thank you. For saving my ass. ...And Goro's.”

Ryuji looked away, embarrassed. “Just 'cause you asked me. I was fuckin' ready to knife the guy.”

“But you didn't.” Akira smiled at him. “How is he?”

“Uh...” Ryuji trailed off. “Takemi said she didn't want to give him any sedatives because they interact with that banana stuff in weird ways. And he doesn't seem to like people going in. But he's calm when the room is empty. So...I've just sorta left him alone, and been peeking in on him.”

Akira closed his eyes, and lay back. He was feeling extremely antsy, but he also knew it would be incredibly stupid to get up, given what Takemi had said.

Then he got an idea. “Hey, give him your phone.”

“Huh?” Ryuji blinked at him.

“The battery on his is probably dead by now, right? So give him yours. I'm gonna text him.”

Ryuji scratched his head. “Do you think he can do that? He seems pretty out of it.”

“If he can talk, he can text.”

“Oookay...” Ryuji pulled out his phone, checked it, made sure to close any incriminating apps and windows, then left the room, and came back. “I just tossed it on the bed. He didn't really react.”

“Give me my phone,” Akira made a beckoning hand. Ryuji pointed to the bedside table, and Akira picked it up. Ryuji must have, very considerately, charged it for him, as it was connected to the cable and at 100%.

Ryuji excused himself, and Akira texted Ryuji's number.

**Hey. It's Joker.**

Then he waited for a while, staring at his phone anxiously the whole time. But eventually, he got a reply.

**It can't be. I killed you. Who is this? Is this some kind of joke? This isn't my phone.** He seemed pretty out of it. His message was so filled with typos and bungled auto-corrects, it was hard to read. But at least he was replying.

**Naw, I'm built tougher than that. Need a dick pic as proof? I don't think I can get hard right now, though. I apparently lost a lot of blood. My buddy gave you that phone so we could text.**

A little pause, and then,  **Where am I? What's going on?**

**It's okay. You're at my apartment. I just can't get up right now because I'm hurt. But I'm okay, you're okay. You just got drugged with some weird shit, so you'll feel confused for a while.**

**I think I heard that before. Someone said there was a drug. I can't remember. Someone I don't know.**

**It's okay,** Akira repeated,  **she's a friend, a doctor. Just rest, okay?**

**I can't rest. I shouldn't even be alive. I was somewhere else, now I'm here. I don't know what's going on.**

**It's okay. Just keep texting me, like always. I'll come to you when I can. We can talk about Bloody Justice. You remember I told you True Justice sucks, right?**

**I remember. You're wrong, though.**

Akira smiled a little.  **Akai would never kill Sana, no matter what. He would never give up on her.**

**Ha-ha. If you don't like the way the story ends, maybe you should just write some fanfiction about it.**

**I already have,** Akira typed with the utmost smugness.

x x x

It was a few days before Takemi grudgingly let Akira get up and go over to the other room to see Goro. Ryuji got him some crutches, and under strict orders to absolutely not put any weight on that leg, Akira hobbled over to the other bedroom.

Goro's hands were pulled out to his sides, and his wrists and ankles were tied to the bed frame with what looked like Akira's own bondage rope.  _Unfortunately, this situation isn't very sexy,_ Akira thought wryly. Imagining Ryuji fumbling through Akira's box of sex toys to find the rope was a very amusing exercise, though.

Akira peeked in slowly, and called out, “Goro?”

Goro's head turned toward him, and he didn't yell or anything, at least.

“Can I come in?” Akira asked, cautiously. Goro stared at him a moment, then nodded. He looked sweaty and disheveled. Well, no wonder. He hadn't had a bath in days. Takemi just went in briefly to check on him. She said she was used to dealing with patients with dementia and such, so she apparently had her tricks to calm people.

Over the past few days, Goro had alternated between moments of relative lucidity where they texted almost-normally and what Akira had to assume was some sort of hallucinatory state, when he would just suddenly stop texting altogether. Akira hoped this was one of his more lucid moments.

Akira crutched over to the bed, then sat himself down on the chair next to it, leaning the crutches against the wall. “Are you doing okay?” He asked, gently.

“No,” Goro answered bluntly. “I feel disgusting.”

“Yeah, you look pretty gross,” Akira said with a grin. “I'm really smelling that Eau de Akechi.”

Goro grimaced.

“It's okay, it's kind of a turn on, really. You're tied up, helpless and sweaty.”

Goro snorted. “This isn't something I ever fantasized about.”

“I could give you a sponge bath.” Akira waggled his eyebrows.

“Please don't.”

“Are you sure you wouldn't enjoy it?”

“I'm sure.” Goro seemed to be trying rather hard not to smile and give Akira the satisfaction of knowing he appreciated Akira's humor even slightly. 

“Can I sit on the bed?” Akira asked, and Goro nodded. Akira shifted himself with his arms to sit near Goro's head, and gently stroked his hair. Goro closed his eyes and didn't resist. Akira glanced over at his wrists to see they were raw around the area of the rope. His ankles were probably the same. But it would be unwise to untie him. Wouldn't it?

“What are you going to do with me?” Goro asked finally.

“Keep you here until you're better,” Akira answered immediately. “You're safe here.”

“I'm really not.”

“Safe enough.” Akira's hand traveled down Goro's face and neck, stroking absently, and he felt Goro turn his head to lean into his touch. “We'll figure it out, together. Okay?”

“...Why are you doing all this?”

“Why do you keep asking that question over and over?”

“It just doesn't make sense to me.”

“Life doesn't make sense,” Akira said dryly.

“And you call me evasive.”

Akira sighed. Goro was one of the very few people who called him out on his tendency to avoid answering revealing personal questions. “It's probably sunk cost fallacy.”

Goro snorted. “You need to learn to cut your losses.”

“Nope.”

Goro sighed, and didn't say anything more. Akira just kept stroking his hair and his face. As long as they were touching, he knew Goro was still alive. He wouldn't have to have any more terrifying hours of silence as Goro stopped texting him, without ever knowing if that meant if he was hallucinating, or dead.

He sat there for who knew how long, and Goro's breathing settled into something that seemed like sleep. Akira's hand stopped, settling on Goro's head.

Then Goro's eyes flew open, and he jerked, eyes swiveling to look all around the room. “Who are you? Why am I tied up? What's going on?”

Akira's heart started racing, but he did his best to sound calm. “I'm a friend. I'm here to watch over you. We tied you up because you've been drugged, and it's made you confused. You just have to hold on a little longer until the drug wears off. You're going to be okay.”

“I want this rope off. Now.” He jerked his arms against his bonds, but they weren't going anywhere, and the attempt just made him wince as the rope rubbed his raw wrists. “How long have I been tied here?”

“Just a few days.” Akira had had similar conversations with him many times already over the past few days, except through text. It was different being right next to him, though. “We're worried you'll hurt yourself. That's why you're tied up.”

“I...” Goro trailed off. “I'm not going to do that again, okay? You don't have to tie me up.”

Akira looked down at him, examining his face. Goro's expression seemed embarrassed, but also sort of distant, like he wasn't quite there. “Do that again?” Akira repeated.

“You know. Don't make me say it. You're the one who found me in the bathroom.”

Akira realized Goro thought he was someone else. Maybe he wasn't even in the present. Suddenly, Akira felt as if he was invading Goro's personal privacy  in the most intimate way possible.  But it wasn't as if he could just walk out of the room, now.

“Just untie me already,” Goro repeated, and there was something childish, young, about the way he was speaking.

“Okay,” Akira said, and, even as he thought this may be incredibly foolish, he untied Goro, one limb at a time, slowly moving himself around the bed with his arms, until Goro was entirely free. Just looking at his wrists and ankles made Akira wince.

Goro sat up and glanced at Akira, sitting beside him on the bed, then looked away. “Thanks.”

“You're welcome,” Akira replied.

“And...” Goro added, sounding hesitant, “I'm sorry...about everything I said. I went way too far.”

“It's okay,” Akira said, comforting. He wasn't sure what Goro was talking about, but if he was going to forget it all anyway, it was probably best to just keep him calm. “I forgive you.”

“Ha-ha...” Goro was looking away, seeming embarrassed. “I thought for sure...you'd never talk to me, ever again.”

“It's okay,” Akira repeated. “I forgive you.”

“Are you...sure?” Goro's head turned, and he seemed confused. “I could have sworn...you never talked to me again, after that. I was...such an asshole. Why couldn't I...” he trailed off, his eyes swimming in the air.

“It's okay,” Akira repeated, leaning toward him, putting his hand over Goro's, but Goro quickly yanked it back, scooting away from him on the bed. 

“I-I-I'm not...” Goro was blushing and looking away.

The disturbing nature of this whole situation aside, seeing blushing teenaged Goro was rather cute. “Sure. That's fine. We can just be friends.”

Goro laughed, and it may have been Akira's imagination, but he sounded a tad disappointed. “All right. If you want.” He said it like he was doing Akira a real favor, there.

x x x

For the next few days, Akira stayed with Goro. Takemi was alarmed about this at first, but eventually conceded it did seem Goro was calmer with him around, and didn't protest further. Ryuji was glad to be able to kick Goro out of his bedroom and into Akira's room, since Ryuji had apparently been sleeping on the couch since the incident.

So now Goro was given the freedom to wander about (under supervision) so he could have showers and eat food like a normal person, and being clean and groomed seemed to perk him up somewhat.

The supervision really was quite necessary, however, and with his injury, Akira really wasn't up to doing anything physical, which meant when Goro tried to climb out the window, Ryuji had to come over and physically pry him away from it, while Akira did his best to talk him down,  to convince him that he was not about to be arrested and imprisoned for murder.

Usually, Goro wasn't like that, though. He was typically various flavors of smiling and pleasant, sometimes taking Akira to be his editor, or some teacher or classmate from his school days, or some celebrity figure or TV personality, imagining himself in some benign social situation.

Many times, Goro took him to be an old sexual partner, and each time, Akira gently rebuffed him. He felt it would be taking advantage. Goro did not take rejection well, however, and would practically drive him out of the room with ice-cold smiles and sharp remarks.

Through bits and pieces of their conversations, Akira got a vague, overall portrait of Goro's life, and it wasn't a pretty one. He suspected under normal circumstances, Goro would never have told him any of this. He was not the type of person who would expose vulnerability to anyone.

Now that Akira could be physically present with him, when Goro was feeling lucid, he generally avoided and ignored him. When Akira asked him if he remembered what happened when he was hallucinating, Goro answered  _no_ in a way that made Akira suspect he was lying. Goro never asked what he did during these episodes, either. Either he already knew, or he didn't want to know.

“I'm not judging you for what you do under the influence of weird mind control drugs,” Akira said to him firmly one evening. Goro was lying in bed on his side, facing away from Akira. He spent most of his time in bed, sleeping, or looking at his phone.

Goro didn't answer, so Akira continued. “I'm not going to tell anyone anything.” Still no response. “I'm not judging you for your past, either.”

“...You pity me.” Goro's tone was bitter. “You think I'm pathetic, don't you?”

“I don't think you're pathetic,” Akira argued, but he couldn't say any more than that. It was true that he pitied Goro. 

“You're the worst liar.”

“What do you want me to say?” Akira was becoming frustrated.

“I want you to tell me why you saved me,” Goro said. He'd asked this question many times already, and Akira had never given him a straight answer. He wasn't sure he really could.

Sitting on the bed by Goro's head, Akira reached out to touch his hair, but Goro pulled away from him. Akira flinched, and drew his hand back. He sat there for a little while in silence.

“I guess the right answer would be for me to say I love you. But I don't really know if that's true. I feel like I hardly know you. But I want to know you. I want you. Not saving you was never an option for me. I didn't even question it.”

“What makes you think I ever wanted saving?” Goro's tone was perfectly calm and even, his face obscured by the angle and his hair.

“Every single fucking day, you look at me like you want saving! Whenever you say, _fuck you,_ your eyes are saying, _don't leave me._ ”

Goro was silent for a long while before he choked out, “...Fuck you.” Akira couldn't see his face, but he knew what Goro really meant. He leaned down to kiss Goro's cheek, and Goro didn't resist.

x x x

Akira got back from the shower, hobbling along on one crutch, wearing a robe, for once, instead of pyjama pants. When he found Goro sitting on the bed in his room, he knew immediately that Goro's mind was elsewhere again. Goro's manner was different, some strange combination of deliberately casual and rigidly wary, a nasty smirk painted on his face.

“Coincidentally just out of the shower, I see,” Goro said. “Yet again.”

Not sure how to reply, Akira answered, “Would you like one?”

Goro's eyes widened, as did his smirk. “Is that an invitation? I always thought you weren't interested.”

Akira sat himself down on the bed and leaned the crutch against the wall. “I'm not.”

But unlike other times, when Goro would react to rejection coldly, this time, Goro only chuckled. “I'm always here, if you ever change your mind. Just close your eyes and think of a woman. A hole is a hole, in the end.”

There was something about the way he said it that gave Akira the impression he wasn't joking about any of this in the slightest, despite his chuckling.  _A hole is a hole._

“You're not a hole,” Akira said softly.

“True,” Goro mused. “I'm really more of a hole-maker.” Goro made a little finger-gun and a _pow_ noise, and laughed. “And I think I deserve a little reward for that.”

“A...reward?” Akira was starting to clue in on who Goro thought he was talking to.

“Yeah...” Goro slid off the bed, coming around to kneel in front of Akira. “It's been so long. Come on.”

He looked up at Akira from that position on his knees, and his eyes were begging. For some reason, Akira couldn't bring himself to say no. “All right.”

Goro smiled and immediately leaned in, pushing the robe out of the way and wrapping his lips around Akira's soft cock.

Akira gasped, and Goro immediately began sucking aggressively with no preamble. Akira could see Goro was already erect and rubbing himself through his pants as he sucked Akira to hardness, maintaining a firm suction the whole time. Akira couldn't do anything but watch and let Goro do as he pleased.

Akira's heart wasn't in it, but his body reacted nevertheless. All he could think about was how Goro must have sucked Shido Masayoshi's cock like this, how clearly desperate and aroused Goro was by the man Akira was planning to kill. Before long, Goro came in his pyjama pants, but he kept dutifully sucking away. He kept his eyes closed for most of it, but when Akira got close, Goro's eyes flicked up to Akira's face.

Goro's pupils were blown wide, from the drug, from the arousal, whatever it was, his lips slick and swollen as they slid up and down Akira's cock. Goro had never looked Akira straight in the eye like this, held his gaze this long—he'd always jerked away, avoided any sort of examination, anything that could expose him.

Goro's eyes were filled with devotion, and it made Akira sick, but he came anyway.

Goro swallowed it like it was the most delicious thing in the world, and Akira petted his head, at a loss as to what he should even be doing at a time like this.

Goro sighed, and rested his head in Akira's lap. “You're being strangely nice today. What's the catch? Or are you just drunk?”

“There's no catch,” Akira murmured, petting Goro's hair. He entertained the thought that perhaps he should be cruel to Goro, say something to drive him away so that Goro would never want to go back to Shido, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. And based on how Goro wrote Osamu Osato, Shido was cruel to begin with, but that hadn't driven Goro away.

“Oh please,” said Goro. “I think we both know each other well enough to drop the nonsense.” He lifted his head off Akira's lap and looked him in the eye with a faint grin on his face. “We can be honest with each other, can't we, _F_ _ather_?”

Akira just stared down at him, blinking.

Goro laughed, and it sounded horribly grating to Akira's ears. “Oh, is this a surprise to you? I thought for sure you already knew, and it was all part of the game.”

“I...didn't know,” Akira said, too numb to know if he was trying to act or just be himself.

Goro deftly tucked Akira's soft cock back into his robe and stood. His hand reached up to his collar as if he meant to adjust a tie, but when he found nothing there but the V-neck of a pajama shirt, he was briefly confused before he shook it off and continued. “Well, I might as well tell you everything, now.” He sat down on the bed beside Akira, eyes glassy and looking into the distance. “I did plan to kill you, you know. I planned to gain your trust, then betray you when you were at your peak. But well, that was a long time ago, now. I've gotten comfortable in this position.” Goro turned to look at Akira, and then he smiled the most genuine smile Akira had ever seen on him.

Did Goro really smile like that at Shido? Or was this just the drugs making him let down his guard?

Akira would never know.

“You're comfortable with this?” Akira turned to face him, took his hand, and Goro didn't shake him off, like he would have otherwise.

“I—” Goro's eyes shifted, and his face turned slightly confused again. He looked down at their hands together like it didn't make sense to him. Akira's chest tightened, and he let go.

“Do you want to keep being my assassin?” Akira asked him, more explicitly.

Goro looked away.

At the end of  _True Justice,_ Akagi Akai killed Sana Seigi. Judging that she had gone too far, he saw no other way but to end her life himself. With her dying breath, Sana acknowledged that she'd become what she hated, and in the end, Akai had gone to confront Osamu Osato himself.

The ending was ambiguous—it was never clear if Osamu Osato was defeated. Perhaps Goro himself hadn't been able to conceive of Osato's death, but even so, couldn't bring himself to kill Osato, either.

Akira wrapped his arms around Goro's shoulders, and Goro stiffened up in his grasp. But this time, Akira didn't let go. He leaned in to Goro's ear and whispered, “Do you want to retire?”

There was a long silence. “...But then you won't need me anymore,” Goro said. He sounded small and fragile. Akira didn't want to believe Goro would ever be like this in front of Shido. How could Goro show this kind of vulnerability to the man who treated him like shit, but not to Akira? It was just the drugs. It had to be the drugs.

Akira pulled Goro close and said, “I'll always need you. You don't have to work for me anymore. We can just be together.”

Akira had told many lies in his life, but this was the worst of them. The words were poison in his mouth.

Finally, Goro relaxed in his arms. He turned toward Akira and buried his face in Akira's shoulder. “Yes, please, I'm so tired. I don't want to do it anymore,” he whispered.

Akira hugged him tight and spoke to him in soothing tones. “You don't have to. It's okay.”

They stayed like that until Goro fell asleep.

x x x

“We didn't have to leave the apartment to have this discussion,” Akira insisted. He and Ryuji were standing in a back alley a block or so away from their apartment. Goro was back there, fast asleep (and Akira could tell now when he was really sleeping, and when he was faking it) and out of the way.

It was at the edge of twilight, and the time of day combined with Ryuji's inherent bad-boy aura and Akira's haggard looks was making this conversation look exceptionally seedy.

Akira was leaning against the cement wall of the back of a building, tapping his crutch against the ground. He was feeling better these days, and he could walk a little, though he wasn't supposed to.

Ryuji was leaning against the opposite wall of the narrow alley, hands in pockets. He shook his head. “I still think you're crazy to trust him. And I don't want him knowing anything about Futaba.”

Akira opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again. As much as he disagreed, he knew Ryuji was the reasonable one here. “Fine. So what did you want to tell me?”

“I can't keep telling Futaba you've got the flu,” Ryuji pointed out. “You gotta see her. And how are you gonna explain away that limp?”

“I can hide it for a bit. I'll call her tonight, okay? Why did you need to come out here to say that?”

Ryuji squirmed uncomfortably. “Futaba's been talking about how she's close to setting up the final mission.” Ryuji said the words “final mission” in an extremely meaningful tone. They both knew what he was talking about. “...And I want you to promise you're not gonna tell Akechi anything about it. We can't trust him with that. Come on.”

Akira was silent. He didn't want to admit that Ryuji was right. Even though Shido had tried to kill Goro, Akira couldn't say for sure that Goro wouldn't try to defend him. In fact, it had become abundantly clear that Goro probably would.

That wasn't going to stop Akira from doing it.

“So...” Akira began slowly. “What's your plan, then? What do we tell him?”

“Uh...” Ryuji looked like he hadn't been expecting that. “...We're going out for pizza, be back later tonight?” He scratched the back of his head.

Akira wheezed a laugh. “I think he knows what we're planning to do. He kind of wrote it into his book.”

“What?! Really?!”

“You gotta read _Bloody Justice,_ man. Now it's mission-relevant material.”

“Ugh, but it's so long, and Sana is such a bitch.”

“The best kind of bitch.” Akira grinned. He felt he should probably be offended on Goro's behalf, but well. The truth was the truth. Then his grin faded, and he looked at the ground.

Ryuji looked all around and made a groaning noise as if he didn't want to say something before he finally came out with, “We could just like...tie him up. Then go do it. Y'know?”

Akira looked at him. Blinked. “Okay.”

Ryuji blew out a long sigh. “I feel like it's a bad thing you agreed to that so easy.”

“Well, I don't have any better ideas.”

“I have a bad feeling about this...”

“We'll figure it out.”

“Will we? Really?” Ryuji gave him a hard look, taking his hands out of his pockets. “What's your long-term plan, here? You can't keep hiding this from Futaba. You can't keep Akechi tied up. What's Futaba gonna do when she finds out you're harboring the dude she's been trying to murder for the past million years? What's he gonna do when he finds out you offed his former boss? ...Fuck.” Ryuji's hands smacked into his face and pulled down his cheeks, and then he slid down the wall into a squat of despair. “I just realized I'm working on the assumption that we're gonna successfully _assassinate the motherfucking prime minister!_ Fuck fuck fuck!”

“Yeah, say that a little louder, Ryuji, so the whole neighborhood can hear.”

Ryuji winced and whispered, “Sorry.”

Akira sighed and leaned harder against the wall, adjusting his stance to get some weight off his leg. “We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Let's just deal with what's in front of us, okay? I'll call Futaba, we'll meet up and talk about plans. Let me handle Goro. You don't have to worry about him.”

“I dunno...”

“Trust me.” Akira tried flashing him one of his patented charmer smiles, but Ryuji had been immune to it for years.

“I trust you. It's him I don't trust.”

Akira didn't answer. He didn't want to say what he really felt.

x x x

“So you're not dead!” It was a joking remark, but Futaba's voice over the phone sounded genuinely relieved.

“Yeah, I'm alive.” Akira didn't have to fake the tiredness in his voice, at least. Ryuji had returned to the apartment, and Akira was alone in the alley.

Watching Goro night and day was wearing him down. He was functionally guarding Goro from escaping. Goro probably realized that. “Sorry, I've been sick as hell. I thought it was the flu, but now I think it's mono. I'm trying not to be contagious.”

“Where'd you get mono? You know they call it the “kissing disease.” Who've you been kissing, huh?” Futaba teased. “I noticed you turned off the camera in your room. Did you actually just catch an STD, huh? 'Bout time.”

But Akira was not up for it. “I don't know where I got it. But anyway, Ryuji told me you've about got things ready for our next shadow.”

“Yeah...well, it can wait until you're better.”

“No, tell me about it, at least.”

“Yeah...well, I was sorting through that information you gave me from your reporter friend. She's good. Is she the one who helped you figure out Haru Okumura would be the next hit?”

“...Yeah, basically,” Akira said. He was too tired, too distracted to think about her question. The mention of Ohya was like a knife in Akira's gut. He still couldn't quite believe that she was dead. He'd been avoiding thinking about her for the past week and a half. He'd kind of had to, in order to sleep in the same bed as her murderer.

“You read it all, right?” said Futaba.

“Looking at my cell phone right now gives me a headache,” Akira lied. He hadn't been able to bring himself to look at any of it. He'd been avoiding all of it. Even though she'd died for that information.

“I don't want to go into detail over the phone,” Futaba told him. “But basically, banana fish was a failure. They couldn't get it to do what they wanted it to do. So instead, our shadow's gonna use it in a false flag operation. He wants to start a war, Akira.”

Akira shook his head and immediately regretted it. Now he did have the headache that he'd been faking. “Shit,” was all he could say.

“We have to stop him.” Futaba's voice was filled with a determination that Akira had never heard in her before. “This is...this is so much bigger than revenge, now, Akira. We have to do this.”

Akira rubbed his forehead and closed his eyes. She was right. Ryuji was right. He had to say something calm and confident and supportive. He knew all the right words he should be saying.

But he was just so tired.

“Yeah,” he told her, and he was surprised with how assured his own voice sounded. Had he become this good a liar? “We're going to do this.”

x x x

When Akira got back into the apartment, it was dark. Ryuji seemed to be out. Akira went into his room to find Goro was still asleep.

Akira carefully leaned his crutch against the wall, then slid himself into bed next to Goro. He wasn't really physically tired, but he didn't want to be awake, either.

Goro stirred a bit, but didn't seem to wake. Half-asleep, he shifted closer to Akira, and Akira welcomed it, wrapping an arm around him, pulling Goro against his neck.

“...Love you,” Goro murmured.

Akira closed his eyes and blew out a long breath. His shoulders were so tense they hurt.

There wasn't even a shred of doubt in his mind that those words were not for him.

“I love you, too,” Akira replied into his hair.

He really was an excellent liar.

 


	12. Barrel of a Gun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, I was really trying to keep track of the times of year. I remember the gallery scene was supposed to be in October/November. Red Traitor was released in like, March? I think. I've lost track. I was gonna have some seasonal symbolism and shit but eyyyy yeah I don't think I've referenced the weather for a while now. XD I'm calling it early summer now. I think. Not important.
> 
> What IS important is all that I've learned about SWAT breeching! Apparently flashbangs are actually insanely difficult to get a hold of in the US, like it's easier to get a flamethrower than a flashbang. This goes for most police equipment. It's easier to get a hold of military stuff. Who knows about Japan. But whatever, Iwai's got connections. ~handwave~

 

For the span of the few weeks it took Akira to recover from “mono,” Futaba hardly called him at all. It was strange—there had been a time when she'd texted him every day, usually constantly, all day, and now that it had petered out to about once a week, he found himself checking his phone out of habit. He didn't text her. He didn't know what to say. He was used to her being the one to text.

Goro was recovering, at any rate. He was basically mostly back to normal, at this point—or rather, he was lucid. Akira realized he didn't know what was normal for Goro. Goro spent most of his time in Akira's bedroom, reading what books Akira had lying around the house, only coming out for food. The rest of the time, he just slept. He seemed to be avoiding Ryuji, and Akira couldn't blame him. It was an awkward situation.

Goro didn't ask what Akira intended to do with him. Goro hardly spoke to him at all. Maybe he sensed that Akira didn't know what to do, or maybe he didn't care.

They slept in the same bed, but they didn't touch.

Akira focused on trying to get back on his feet again, working out his upper body and gently working on his leg. He wanted to be in good shape for what was coming, but he wasn't sure he would have the time for a full recovery. He'd just have pop a few painkillers and suck it up.

Ryuji's habit was to get up at the crack of dawn and head out, while Akira rolled out of bed around noon, and Goro rolled out of bed even later than that. So Akira was at the table alone, munching on some toast and shoving Morgana off the table and away from the sausages when Goro stumbled out of the bedroom with mussed hair and bleary eyes, wearing Akira's pyjamas.

“Toast?” Akira offered, pointing to the stack on the serving plate in front of him.

“Thank you,” Goro replied with rote politeness, plucking a dry slice from the plate before he turned away as if he meant to go straight back to the bedroom again.

“Wait.” Akira half rose from his chair. “Come on. Eat breakfast with me.”

Goro turned around, expression blank, but sat down obediently and began eating without a word.

Akira looked down at his plate. He didn't know how to talk to Goro, now. He'd seen too much, during Goro's recovery, and now every question felt like an intrusion. Or maybe he was just avoiding questions because he was scared of what the answers might be.

For once, though, Goro spoke first. “I see you bought that painting.”

“Huh?” Akira jerked his head up, then followed Goro's gaze over to the painting that now hung behind the couch. It was the one Yusuke had done, the dark, abstract piece that looked like a black tunnel with a small light in the distance. “Yeah. Well. I like it.” He took a bite, chewed, and swallowed, before adding rather impulsively, “and it reminded me of you.”

Goro's lips twisted in a sarcastic smile. “Aren't you the charmer.”

“I didn't buy it to impress you.”

Goro had nothing to say to that.

“What do you think it means, now?” Akira asked. “You were sort of evasive, before.”

Goro put down his slice of toast and daintily wiped his fingers on a paper napkin lying on the table before he answered. “What is this, some kind of Rorschach test? Want a view into my inner psychology? Haven't you gotten enough of that already?”

Akira winced and looked down at his empty plate. But he didn't back down. “Yeah, that's exactly right. I want to know what you're thinking. I want to know what you're feeling. So tell me: do you see a light at the end of that tunnel?”

Goro seemed rather taken aback by Akira's directness. His head turned to look at the painting. “Who said light was anything good? Maybe I want to be in the dark.” Then with a scrape against the floor, he rose from his seat and went back into Akira's bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

Akira looked over at Goro's plate. He hadn't even eaten half a slice of toast.

x x x

“This is it,” Futaba spun around in her chair. Akira could tell she was serious, because she had her game headphones on and she'd brushed her hair, for once. “So this is the plan.”

She explained that Haru Okumura had repaid them for the tip about the threat on her life with a connection to Prime Minister Shido's security detail. Futaba had sent her a QR code, which Okumura had then discreetly scanned with a security guard's phone, and that was their in. Futaba was tapping every single conversation within audio range of that phone.

The longer this bug was in place, though, the more likely it became it would be detected, so they couldn't wait forever. Their opportunity was coming soon, when the Prime Minister would be going for a little holiday, and would be away from the tight security of his house and the legislature.

The plan was about the same as always. Arrange a sniping point, bang bang, and run. It seemed like it'd work.

Ryuji, sprawled out on Futaba's bed as per usual, groaned and covered his face. “The fact that it all sounds like it'd work is just freaking me out harder. Are you guys really sure about this? This is the Prime Minister of Japan. The _Prime fucking Minister._ Are you ready to become an enemy of the state? Do you really think we're gonna get away with this?”

Leaning against Futaba's door, Akira folded his arms. “Honestly, no. I think even if we do pull this off, there will be consequences. One—or all of us—could get arrested. Or shot.”

“Well, duh!”

Akira's head jerked up to see Futaba leaning forward in her seat. She didn't have her knees up against her chest anymore. Her tone was startlingly forceful. “It's always been dangerous! That's not new. You guys knew what this was about ever since we started. But now things are different. This is about _stopping a war._ Do you get that? This is bigger than us.”

Ryuji pushed himself up off the bed. He still seemed hesitant. But Futaba pushed further. “Shido's already manufacturing banana fish in secret, in a Chinese factory. He's gonna set up an incident, then accuse China of breaking international treaties and using chemical weapons on another nation. This isn't just a conspiracy theory. _It's happening right now._ Either we do this, or people are gonna die. _Lots_ of people. We're going to do this.”

Futaba was glaring at him, and something about that look made Akira uncomfortable. He never would have expected a speech like this from her. Where had timid, clinging Futaba gone? She wasn't begging him for help, now. She was _commanding_ him.

“...I'm just worried something will happen to you,” Akira said lamely, hanging his head. It was true. All this time, he'd felt he was taking on the most risk. If anyone was going to get burned, it would be him. Now, he was only just realizing that Futaba was in just as deep as he was. Probably deeper.

“Is it really me you're worried about?”

The bite in her words confused him. “You think I'm not worried? Come on, just promise me if it looks like we're in trouble, you'll erase everything. Smash up your computer if you have to. Destroy any evidence that you were involved.”

“What?!” Futaba shrieked, standing from her chair. “No way! You think I'm just gonna cut you loose to get arrested or shot or detained and tortured or I don't even know while I sit back at home like nothing happened?! No! No no no!”

Akira's arms dropped to his sides, eyes wide as he stared at Futaba's expression of anger. He didn't even know how to respond.

“Hey, hey guys,” Ryuji hastily intervened, standing to cut between them. “Let's not assume we're gonna blow it, okay? We're gonna pull this off, and we'll all be okay. We're not gonna think about getting shot. That's just asking for failure, right?”

It was a rather naively optimistic view, but perhaps one Akira needed to hear. “Yeah, you're right. Let's not worry about worst-case scenarios. We've pulled this stuff off before, we'll do it again.”

“Yeah. We're gonna do this,” Futaba said with a firm nod.

x x x

“Your leg is just about better,” Goro commented. He stood at the door to Akira's bedroom.

Akira had the wooden floor panels of his bedroom floor pulled up and was crouched on the floor by his hidden compartment, cleaning and checking his guns and equipment.

Akira turned around, still crouching, to look at Goro.

He was wearing a pair of Akira's pyjama pants with an old white T-shirt. His hair hadn't been washed in a while. He was one of those guys who only ever grew patchy and awkward facial hair, and it was poking out in places along his jaw, unshaven for the past few days. He was a far cry from the well-groomed and composed celebrity Akira had once seen on TV.

“You look like shit,” Akira commented.

“Thank you,” Goro replied with a chilling smile. “So what are you doing there, hmm? Planning to go shoot anyone sometime soon?”

All this time, Akira had assumed he was the one watching Goro. Making sure he didn't run off on some drug-induced trip, or try to kill someone, or contact Shido.

But now, suddenly, he realized he'd had it backwards. Goro had been the one watching him.

Akira turned to look back at his guns. “I think you're smart enough that I don't have to spell it out for you.”

“Do you seriously think I'm going to let you do that?”

Instinct told Akira to grab his handgun and leap to his feet, pointing it at Goro in a two-handed grip.

Goro's tone of voice was sunny, but his eyes were dead as he stared straight at Akira. His hands lay at his sides, his stance even and relaxed.

They stood there like that for a minute until finally, Akira lowered his gun and turned away. “I'm not going to be the assist in your suicide.”

Akira didn't expect Goro to lunge at his back, but he should have. It only took a split second before Goro's arm was around his neck in a chokehold, and Akira dropped his gun so he could twist around, trying to get his hand under Goro's grip so he could breathe, but Goro was too good at this. Akira instantly recognized that Goro had killed like this many, many, many times.

Goro's arm squeezed tighter.

x x x

Akira woke up again on his back on the floor, gasping for air, when Goro's fist came down against his face with a raw smack, breaking his fake glasses at the nose. When the second punch came and Akira rolled his head to the side to avoid it, he figured out he'd only been out for a minute at most.

Akira pulled back both his knees and kicked Goro hard in the stomach with both feet, shoving Goro off him. Goro was flung back, stumbling back into the wall, where he sagged, the wind knocked out of him.

Akira took the opportunity to grab Goro, whip him around, and force him to the ground on his face, restraining his arms behind him.

It was then that Akira noticed how thin Goro was now, compared to the last time they had fought. He'd spent about a month never leaving the apartment, mostly lying in bed, hardly eating.

Now he lay there limp, not struggling against Akira's grasp.

Akira's knees dropped, and he sat down on top of Goro, holding him firmly, but not painfully. “What the fuck is this about? Come on.”

Goro didn't reply.

“We both know you're not really trying, here. What do you want? Do you want to stop me?”

Goro wouldn't say a word.

Akira punched the floor beside Goro's head, but Goro didn't even flinch. “He's killed dozens of people to get where he is—using _his own son_ to do it, and he's ready to kill more! He's a fucking fascist! He wants to start a war! He drugged you just to get to me, knowing it could kill you! He doesn't care about you, or anyone!”

There was a long silence.

“...Come on, just _say something._ ” Akira hated how broken his own voice sounded. He just didn't know what to do anymore.

Goro exhaled against the floor. Finally, he said, “...So what?”

“...So what?” Akira released Goro's arms.

Goro's face turned so Akira could see his profile, see the mean smile there. “So what? So he's poison. So am I. I don't need him to care about me. He gets me. That's all.”

“You fucking liar.” Akira drooped over Goro's back, suddenly exhausted. “You're not like him. You're better than that.”

Goro laughed, and his shaking shoulders rattled against Akira's forehead. “If you think I'm not, then you don't know me well enough.”

That hurt. What did Akira know about him, really? Just what he'd read in his books. Just what he'd chosen to reveal. He was only obsessed with the illusion of a man he'd built up inside his head.

But to Akira, that illusion felt more real than anything else.

Goro's chuckling quieted, and he sighed. “You've known all along you should have let me go. Go run off with your bleach-blond motorcycle boy. It's obvious he's in love with you. You two make a cute couple.”

“ _No._ I don't want him. I want you.”

“I don't want you.”

“ _Liar._ ”

“...”

“...You think you're poison because you've lied? I've lied. You think you're dirty because you've killed people? I've killed people. You think there's something wrong with you because you're devoted to someone who treats you like shit?” Akira's fist slammed down by Goro's face again as he leaned down, looking Goro straight in the eye. “I think I have an inkling of what that feels like.”

Goro squeezed his eyes shut. “You don't—you don't understand. You think you do, but you don't. Your arrogance makes me sick.” His words were harsh, but his expression was a tightly-sealed lid trying and failing to keep anything from coming out.

“Then feel free to puke all over my floor.” Akira grabbed both Goro's arms, leaned over to tug out a roll of bondage rope he'd tossed carelessly under his bed and began to tie Goro's wrists behind his back.

Goro tensed, but didn't struggle. “What are you doing?”

“Sorry, but I'm going to kill your excuse for a sperm donor tonight, and I can't have you interfering. Do you need me to drug you, or will you sit quietly, tied up?”

“Just fucking kill me.” Goro's voice was raw.

“No.”

“You're such a sadist. Give me the drugs. I don't want to be awake.”

x x x

Dressed, equipped, and with his backpack full of gear on his back, Akira took one last look at Goro, passed out and tied up in his bed.

He thought about kissing his cheek, but decided against it.

“Sorry.”

He closed the door behind him.

x x x

Shido was staying at some fancy seaside hotel for rich people just outside of Tokyo for the weekend. Akira tried to imagine him lounging by the poolside and drinking martinis and failed. He just hoped he wasn't gonna run into the prime minister in swim trunks.

“ _You ready, Joker?”_ Futaba's voice came through his earpiece.

Futaba had rented a room in this 30-story hotel under a fake name where Akira had been holed up for the past two days, waiting for the perfect moment when Shido was walking out down below. Akira had napped a bit from time to time, only to be jolted awake whenever Futaba alerted him that Shido had left his room.

Ryuji had come up to sleep a couple times, but most of the time, he was loitering on ground level at various businesses near the parking lot, ready to run to his bike whenever he got the signal.

“I've been ready all day,” Akira replied, leaning against the window with the blinds cracked open, looking through his binoculars at the courtyard and swimming pool. His rifle on its tripod was pointing downward, waiting. “I don't think he's gonna come into the courtyard. I think after the Kaneshiro job—” a lie, it was since he'd rescued Goro—“he figured out there's a sniper targeting his connections, so he's gotten cautious. He's not going to make it easy.”

“ _Ngh...”_ Futaba moaned. There weren't any tall buildings around here aside from the hotel itself, so as long as Shido was inside the hotel building, Akira wouldn't have a shot. And on the way in, his guard had been tight.

“It's time for plan B,” Akira said, lowering his binoculars.

“ _Uh-huh,”_ Ryuji interjected in his ear. _“Plan B is not a real plan. Plan B is—”_

“B for B-movie, I know,” Akira grinned, even though the others couldn't see it. “Don't worry. It'll work out. It worked for Sana Seigi.”

“ _Sana Seigi is a fictional character,”_ Ryuji pointed out.

“There's truth in all fiction,” Akira replied, and Ryuji went thankfully silent.

“ _Do it,”_ said Futaba. _“I've got your back, Joker._ ”

Akira packed away his gun and equipment, then pulled out the cleaning staff jumpsuit he'd procured earlier from the laundry room and put it on over his clothes. It was baggy enough to conceal two suppressed handguns, a knife, and the fact that he was wearing a bulletproof vest under everything. He topped it off with a pair of cleaning gloves and a grey ball cap that would hopefully conceal his face well enough.

His hand slipped inside his pocket to check the weird card he'd gotten from Futaba. It looked kind of like a piece of a motherboard. “You're sure this is going to work?” He asked her through the comm.

“ _Probably. I mean, ninety-five percent. I tested it out on a bunch of RFID readers. Should be good.”_

“Should be good, huh?” Akira muttered, then shoved it into the pocket of the jumpsuit. “I'm trusting you on this, Futaba.”

He was on the twenty-ninth floor, right below the penthouse suite. There was a cleaning closet down the hall, which he easily lock-picked his way into. He wheeled the cart back to his hotel room, dumped in a stack of sand bags and then everything else he needed into the laundry hamper, then wheeled the cart out again, heading for the elevator. It was heavy as hell, but he could still push it. Once he was in, he waved the weird card Futaba had given him in front of the key card panel. It went green.

“Going up,” he said.

On the way up the elevator, Akira noticed his hands were shaking. He raised them in front of his face and stared at them. He'd always had iron steady hands. What the hell was wrong with him? Maybe it was best that sniping was out.

Drawing his gun, he held it behind the cleaning cart.

The elevator doors opened, revealing a short hallway with a fire entrance on one end, and the door to the penthouse suite on the other. Two security guards stationed outside the suite turned to look at him as soon as the he stepped out of the elevator.

“Hey, you're not one of our—” the guard was cut off by a silenced bullet to the skull, and the second guard was felled before he could finish drawing his gun.

Akira pushed the cart on down the hall, firing another round in each guard's head for good measure before shoving the bodies aside and pushing the cleaning cart in front of the door.

He reached into the laundry hamper to pull out the semi-automatic rifle he'd stashed in there, then grabbed the flashbang he'd left on the item rack next to the window cleaner. He waved Futaba's card over the door. Green.

He shoved open the door, pulled the pin on the flashbang, tossed it, and ducked behind the laundry hamper, eyes shut and hands over his ears as white light blared through his eyelids and a noise like an explosion banged loud enough to hurt, even through his hands.

There were shouts inside. He tried to count, but could only figure out there were at least five, which he'd assumed already. Wild shots thunked into the walls and the sand bags he'd stuffed into the laundry hamper for protection.

The instant after the initial bang, Akira pushed the hamper into the room, crouching low as he peeked out from behind it to just start firing.

The security guards inside were all squinting and blind, some clearly staggering with inner ear damage. A couple idiots were firing anyway, and Akira took them out with one burst after another, sending blood and organs splattering all over what had to be expensive as fuck carpeting.

One, two, five, six down. Akira was starting to feel giddy on the high of actually pulling this off. But he didn't see Shido. He heard noise from the bedroom.

Akira loaded a fresh magazine in the semi-automatic, then, still hunched down with the cleaning cart in front of him, he pushed it toward the bedroom, shooting a line of bullets through the wall in front of him. He heard one cry. Two. Was one of them Shido? He couldn't tell.

He kicked open the door to the bedroom, pressed himself against the wall, and scanned the room. There were two bodyguards on the floor, bleeding out and moaning, and Akira finished them off with a couple more rounds to the head. Shido was cowering in the corner by the bedside table, hands over his head.

Just in case, Akira shot the hotel phone on the table, then pointed his gun at Shido. “Show me your hands.”

Shido slowly put his hands in the air, and Akira took a couple quick steps toward him, taking one hand off the rifle to check Shido's his pockets for any cell phones or pagers. He pulled Shido's cell phone out of his pocket, then tossed it aside.

This close, Shido looked a lot different from how he did on TV. Older. He was still fairly young for a politician, but clearly past his prime. Akira could see the wrinkles on his forehead, around his mouth. He was doing his best to put on a calm act, standing there with his hands in the air as Akira patted him down, but sweat was beading on his temple.

“ _Joker, don't drag this out,”_ Futaba warned. _“Security could come at any time.”_ Akira ignored her.

“You're not going to get away with this,” Shido said. It seemed he was going to begin with threats. “I have more security downstairs, and they'll be up here at any minute.”

“Don't care,” said Akira. “I'll kill them, too.”

“So what is it you want?” Shido said, quickly shifting tactics, tone forcibly light. “Money? Is this a hostage situation?”

“I don't want money. Down on your knees,” Akira ordered, nudging Shido with the barrel of the rifle, and Shido slowly sank to the floor, eyes on Akira the whole time.

Akira pulled a dirty rag he'd gotten from the laundry hamper out of his pocket and shoved it in Shido's mouth. He enjoyed the sight of Shido on his knees for a moment. Then drew back his leg and kicked Shido in the balls.

Shido collapsed forward, hands over his crotch, his muffled scream pleasant to the ear.

“ _What the fuck are you doing, Joker?”_ He heard Ryuji say.

Akira plucked the earpiece out of his ear and let it dangle from its cord, at his neck.

He went back to the laundry hamper, pulled what looked like a rolled-up mat from inside it, then ripped the protective layer off the adhesive and smacked it into a non-carpeted area of the floor. Then, detonator in hand, he went back to where Shido was moaning on the ground, crouched down behind the bed beside him, and set off the breech blast.

The sound made Shido yelp, but Akira just grabbed him by the back of his suit jacket and dragged him over through the smoke to the smoldering hole he'd blasted in the floor and tossed the man down headfirst. Not like it really mattered if Shido survived this. It'd just be nice if he did. Akira jumped down after him to land in the suite where he'd begun.

“All right then, that should give us a couple minutes,” Akira said. It would take some time for security downstairs to respond to the boom of the flashbang, and the smoke would cover his exit for long enough.

He turned to face Shido on the floor, lying on his side among bits of plaster and wood pattering down from the ceiling. From all the moaning he was doing, it seemed he was still alive.

Akira kicked him in the gut, in the side, in the face. Akira's blood was rushing in his ears, spurred on by the little yelps and moans coming from the figure cowering at his feet. One particularly good kick rolled Shido onto his back, where he lay, covering his face pitifully with his hands.

Akira realized his was grinning. There was blood on the carpet.

He crouched down and plucked the spit-sodden rag out of Shido's mouth. He wanted to hear a little begging before he ended this.

“Wh-what do you want?” Shido said, clearly trying to not to sob.

“I want to hurt you,” Akira hissed at him. “Fuck you for what you did to your own fucking son.”

Shido went momentarily silent, eyes widening a bit, before he laughed, slightly hysterical. “Oh, so you're Goro's boyfriend. You sure did a good job winding him around your little finger. So you were doing it to get to me? You're good. I could use a man like you.”

Akira punched him in the face, and Shido's head snapped backward with the force of it. “Fuck you.” He stood, placed his boot on Shido's neck, and pointed his gun down at his face.

“You're doing this for him? Shido choked out, his voice half-strangled under Akira's shoe. “Fine. I'll keep my hands off him, I promise. You work for me, I'll pay you twice what I paid him. You won't have to worry about the police. I can even give you a position. You'll have anything—” he was cut off by a bullet to the face, the burst from the rifle opening up his flesh in a line from his neck to the top of his skull like an overripe fruit.

Tucking his gun under the jumpsuit again, Akira tucked the dangling headpiece back into his ear and instantly winced.

“— _the fuck are you doing, Joker?!”_

“I'm here, I'm here,” Akira said, striding out of the room. “What's up?”

“ _Security is coming! And the cops! Get out, get out of there!”_ Ryuji was screaming into his ear.

“Shit.” Akira unzipped the cleaning jumpsuit and yanked it off along with the gloves and hat. He dumped them all along with the semi-automatic under the bed, then pushed open the window. The grappling set was already set up there. He just had to clip it into his belt harness and go.

...Easier said than done. This was twenty-nine stories up.

“Fuck, fuck fuck fuck...” Akira muttered. “About to jump. Let's hope I don't turn into a pancake, Skull.”

“ _It's fine, I checked the rig, just jump!”_ He could hear how antsy Ryuji sounded on the other end.

Taking a deep breath, Akira clambered up to the sill, then dropped.

Akira half-ran and half-fell down the side of the building. He could hear people below yelling and pointing. When he was nearly down on the ground, he spotted black suits coming around the building toward him.

He made a smooth landing, though it sent a jolt of pain through his injured leg, and cut the cord with his knife without missing a beat, running straight for where he knew Ryuji was parked at the back of the hotel, behind some dumpsters.

“I'm coming!” Akira yelled, and he heard the roar of the engine as Ryuji started off, pulling right past Akira without stopping, and Akira grabbed onto the back seat grips to swing himself onto the moving bike.

“We're getting the fuck out of here!” Ryuji accelerated like he was at the racetrack, speeding away right before the bullets hit the pavement behind them.

“I did it,” Akira said breathlessly, arms squeezing tight around around Ryuji's stomach. “We did it!”

“We're not outta the woods yet!” Ryuji blasted the wrong way down a one-way avenue before pulling out onto a main artery. At this time of day, it was packed with traffic, but this was good for them—it would choke off pursuit. Ryuji squeezed between cars packed so close that Akira's sleeves brushed a couple rear-view mirrors, weaving between traffic at a breakneck speed, blowing every red light along the way.

“I don't see anyone following us,” Akira said after a while, looking behind them. Without a helmet, he was squinting in the wind. “You should probably slow down. We'll draw too much attention.”

“Yeah. Of course. Yeah.” Ryuji still sounded extremely freaked, but he slowed down and stopped blowing reds, though he was still driving too fast and weaving.

“How about that, Oracle?” Akira said into the mike. “We did it. We actually did it.”

But his reply was silence.

“Oracle?” said Ryuji. “You there?”

“Oracle?” Akira's stomach dropped like a stone.

x x x

“ _Oh, so you're Goro's boyfriend. You sure did a good job winding him around your little finger. So you were doing it to get to me? You're good. I could use a man like you.”_

The moment Futaba heard those words, she was certain.

She'd had her suspicions for a while now. Akira had been acting strange ever since that night he'd been attacked by the crow. She knew him better than anyone. Maybe he thought he was just to smooth and polished and that she was too naive to tell when he was lying, but she wasn't stupid. Why had his security camera been off? How had Akira known that Haru Okumura would be the crow's next target?

So she'd bugged his phone (he really was dumb about that sort of thing. He never even suspected), and the information had started coming in.

She hadn't wanted to believe it, at first. Her theory seemed completely unbelievable, and she'd wanted it to not be true.

But hearing the name _Goro_ come out of Masayoshi Shido's lips had sealed the deal. Finally, she knew what Akira had been hiding from her this whole time.

And Ryuji, too. Was he in on it? Had they both been lying to her?

“Stupid, stupid _stupid_ —” she stomped her feet into her boots and stumbled out the door.

Going outside like this wasn't impossible to her anymore—because Akira had been there, he had helped her. Not just recently. He'd always been trying to get her to go out. It was because she'd had him that she'd even felt she _wanted_ to go out in the first place. He'd made her feel like there was something worth going out for.

Panting as she alternately ran and walked to the station, Futaba was hit with a sense of deja-vu. She'd done this before. Back then, she'd been worried out of her mind about Akira.

When she reached the station, she paused.

It wasn't like she knew it for sure. Maybe she was jumping to conclusions. Akira wouldn't do that to her, right? He couldn't. She trusted him more than anyone she'd ever known. Maybe she was the jerk here for doubting him, for having the crazy idea that he was harboring the very murderer they were trying to find.

Her hands were only shaking a little as she pulled out her phone.

Maybe she should wait. Talk to him.

Her phone pinged in her hand, and Futaba jumped. It was a text from Yusuke. Or rather, it was a photo with no words. It was just a tree with fresh green leaves on it. But she knew this tree. Yusuke had been taking pictures of it for months now, over the course of the seasons. He'd said he was thinking about doing something with it, once he had a full year's worth of photos.

It was also a tree that stood outside the rural residence where Madarame now lived.

 **Visiting him again, huh?** Futaba typed.

 **As always,** Yusuke replied immediately.

 **I don't know how you can do it. You know what he did.** Futaba had avoided talking about this immediately after the incident, for fear of leaking something, but it was hard not to bring it up when it was such a big deal. This was the one thing she just couldn't get about Yusuke.

There was a pause before Yusuke replied. **I know. But he's still the father who raised me. I've decided to forgive him. Being angry at him just poisons everything around me.**

Futaba looked at her phone, paced around, then thumped down on the bench by the station gates. It was the middle of the day, so it wasn't too crowded, and it was pleasantly warm. She looked up to see a clear sky.

It all felt wrong to her. She'd rather it were raining. But things never went the way she wanted.

 **You're such a good guy, Yusuke,** she replied, finally. Then she put her phone away, ignoring his reply.

Futaba found a taxi, slid into the back seat, and told the driver the address. She didn't stutter, this time.

_I wish I could be like you._

x x x

Makoto was on her lunch break, eating the healthy but admittedly rather bland-tasting boxed lunch she'd packed at the station when the uproar started. People were going every which way, phones were ringing, people were yelling. Of course, nobody told her what the hell was going on. She was just a beat cop.

“What's going on?” she slid her rolling chair back to ask the receptionist. Makoto had learned early on that she was the real source for information around here, and she was a lot more forthcoming with things than her coworkers or superiors.

“Look, look!” The receptionist shoved her cell phone in Makoto's face, and Makoto saw it was opened up to a Youtube video that already had tens of thousands of views in less than an hour.

It was shaky cell phone footage of a black-clad figure rappelling down the side of a high-rise building, then running off to leap onto the back of a motorcycle and zoom away. It was too distant and too shaky to make out any details of the person's face or dress.

But that motorcycle.

Makoto put her hand over her mouth to stop any stray bits of food from falling out.

“They're saying Prime Minister Shido's been assassinated!” The receptionist said, replaying the video. “This is the guy who did it!”

Makoto choked and spat crumbs into her hand.

x x x

When Futaba walked into the apartment Akira and Ryuji shared, she found the light had been left on. It was quiet. She took off her boots at the door and tiptoed in.

She wasn't sure what she would find. Some kind of evidence that Goro Akechi had been here, maybe. What would that evidence even be? Clothing? Signed copies of his books?

...Yeah, she wasn't going to be able to read _Bloody Justice_ ever again.

What Futaba was most certainly not expecting to find was Goro Akechi himself, tied up and passed out on Akira's bed.

Futaba smothered a high-pitched noise with her hands as she stood at the door and tried to calm her racing heart. It wasn't working.

She sank down the door frame, holding her head in her hands. He was actually right here. _Right here._ Just lying there. This thing that she'd been working at for how many years now? She'd had fantasy after fantasy about personally putting a bullet in his head, even knowing she could never be the one to do it. And now _she could._

This didn't feel real.

She noticed there was a panel of Akira's floor open, revealing his weapons stash. She'd known about it. He'd clearly taken most of them with him, but there was still an old handgun here, and some ammunition.

Futaba crawled over to the hole on her hands and knees and reached over to cautiously pick up the gun. She'd only ever really seen these things in movies, but how complicated could it be, right? You could just Google it. _How to load a gun..._

She managed it, somehow, with minimal fumbling. Then she paused. She inched over to the bed. Poked the sleeping man in the forehead. He didn't move. Had he been drugged?

This whole situation was confusing. Shido had said Akechi was Akira's boyfriend, but here he was tied up and passed out. Futaba didn't get what was going on.

She shook her head. No, it didn't matter. What mattered now was that she _knew_ this was the crow, she _knew_ this was the man who had killed her mother. And she was going to end all these long years of suffering and scheming and struggle with her own two hands.

Holding the gun in both hands, she stood by the side of the bed, holding it at point-blank range at Akechi's head. She closed her eyes. Squeezed the trigger.

Nothing happened.

Opening her eyes again with a big breath out, Futaba looked at the gun, confused.

“You have to take the safety off,” came a voice from the bed. “And oh god, don't look down the barrel, you're going to blow your face off. Just watching you makes me want to kill myself and save you the trouble.”

Futaba jumped about a foot in the air with a shriek, stumbling backward to press her back against the wall.

“No need to freak out. Just press that little bolt at the back of the trigger guard. Come on, get it over with. Or are you too incompetent to manage that much?” Hands bound above him at the headboard, Akechi's face was turned toward her, twisted in a sneer.

Futaba scowled, looked at the gun, and pressed the safety.

Well, now that he was awake, she might as well get herself some answers. “You're Shido's assassin, aren't you?” she said. Her voice wasn't shaking. Too much.

“Yes yes, isn't that why you're coming to kill me? You're Akira's accomplice, I take it. Then go on, get it over with.”

Futaba shook her head. “I'm asking some questions, first. Did you kill a woman named Wakaba Isshiki?”

“I don't remember the names of everyone I've killed.”

“ _You should remember!_ ”

Akechi winced and closed his eyes. “What does it matter? I've killed a lot of people. It's all the same to me. If you want revenge, go ahead and do it. It's not like I can stop you.”

Futaba was really shaking, now. But this time, it was with rage. “How can you not remember?! Was it really nothing to you?! You're lying to me!”

“Are you too scared to pull the trigger?” Akechi cut her off. “Typical. I saw you flinch before you tried to fire. Most people can't kill someone with their own hands. They prefer to contract it out to someone who can. Someone like me.” He glared at her, eyes wild, and Futaba couldn't look away. “Do you need someone else to do your dirty work, too?”

Slowly, Futaba raised the gun again. “Shut up.”

“I know all about users like that.”

“ _You shut up.”_

“Akira was a good tool, wasn't he?”

“ _Stop talking!”_

Akechi stopped talking.

Futaba took a deep breath before speaking again. “What was going on between you and Akira?”

Akechi's head turned away. “Just what you see here. I'm his prisoner. He wanted me to have a fair trial after all of this was over, and go to prison. What an idiot. I'm just going to get executed, anyway.”

Something about that didn't sound right. That didn't sound like Akira. “Are you two...”

“Fucking?” Akechi finished for her, tone sharp. “Of course. He's got me tied up in his bed. What do you think was going on?”

Futaba felt dizzy. She wanted to know the truth, but she couldn't trust what this man said. But neither could she trust Akira anymore, either.

Everyone was lying to her. There was only one thing she could believe was true.

Goro Akechi had killed her mother.

Futaba leveled the gun again and took a deep breath.

x x x

“I thought you wanted me to slow down, man,” Ryuji said through his helmet headset. “You think Oracle's in trouble?

“No. I think...” Akira buried his head in Ryuji's back. “Just hurry back to the apartment.” They'd already swapped bikes, and were on their way back home.

When they pulled in in front of the apartment complex, Akira jumped off the back of the bike before Ryuji had even stopped, running up to the door. It was unlocked.

“Goro!” He yelled as he opened the door. When he saw Futaba's boots were there and the door to the bedroom was open, Akira's blood ran cold. “Goro!”

He rushed to the bedroom to find Futaba pointing a gun at Goro, who was still lying tied up on the bed.

When Futaba saw him, her grip tightened on the gun. “Don't move or I'll shoot!” She yelled at him.

She sounded ready to do it.

“Futaba, don't—”

“Don't talk to me!” she cut him off. “How long have you been lying to me, huh? Are you about ready to tell me what's going on? Do you ever tell me what's going on with you? You never really trusted me, did you? You'd tell stuff to a _murderer_ and not to me?” She spat the word out like it was dirty.

“Futaba—”

“No. Shut up. I'm not listening to you anymore. I know I'm not gonna get the truth, anyway.”

On the bed, Goro was chuckling. “Sounds like the chickens have come home to roost.”

“You shut up, too!” Futaba's head snapped back to him.

“Then shut me up. Do it, you fucking coward,” Goro spat.

“Guys?” Came a voice from the door. It was Ryuji. “You might wanna...”

“Hands up, all of you,” came an authoritative bark. Akira spun around to see a familiar pair of reddish eyes, a police uniform, and a gun pointed at his chest.

It was Makoto.

“How the hell are you—”

“Hands in the air!” Her gun jerked upward to emphasize the command, her eyes in a hard glare. Akira saw Ryuji behind her, kneeling on the ground with his hands behind his back, cuffed to a leg of the kitchen table.

Akira slowly started raising his hands, eyes flicking between Ryuji, Makoto, Futaba, and Goro.

“Someone filmed us after the hit, man,” Ryuji was babbling. “And she saw the bike, and she came here—”

“You don't have a warrant, do you?” Akira said, half-guessing, hoping it was true. It was strange that she was here on her own. “You just came here. Does the station know?”

Makoto ignored him. “You in the back! Put down that gun and hands in the air.” Her eyes shifted over to the bed, and widened. “Is that...Goro Akechi? Just what the hell is going on here?”

Futaba froze like a deer in headlights. “I—I—”

She was interrupted by a voice from the bed. “...So Shido is dead?” Goro murmured. “You actually killed him? Aha. Aha-ha-ha-ha.” By the end, his laughter sounded more like sobs.

Futaba just stared at Goro the whole time, gun still pointed at him.

“Put down the gun. Now,” Makoto repeated.

Futaba stood there a moment, eyes wide, hands shaking. “I can't. He's a murderer. He—”

“Shut up,” Akira snapped. “Stop talking.” He glared hard at Futaba, trying to tell her with his eyes, _not in front of Makoto. Don't let her know anything._ He was sure he could talk her down if he just had the time. He had to deal with Makoto, get her out of here somehow. Then he would deal with Futaba.

“No!” Futaba shook her head hard. “He killed my mom! He's killed so many people, more than I even know! He deserves to die.”

“Whatever he did,” Makoto said, tone carefully even, comforting, even, trying to talk Futaba down. Her eyes on Futaba softened a little. “He will be judged under the law. I will personally ensure he's brought to justice. There's no need for you to carry this yourse—”

She was cut off when Akira whipped out his handgun and fired into her chest.

“What the hell—” Ryuji couldn't finish.

“You told her,” Akira said, gun swivelling around to point at Futaba. He would never shoot. He just wanted to get her to put the gun down. “She knows too much. I'm not letting Goro go to jail.”

The gun fell from Futaba's hands, clattering to the floor as she stared at Akira. He lowered his gun, clicked on the safety and tucked it away before going to Goro to untie him. When his hand brushed Goro's face, he found it was wet with tears.

There was a thump as Futaba's knees hit the ground, unable to support her weight. “How could you?” she murmured.

Once Goro was untied, Akira approached her, reached out to her. “I just—”

“Don't touch me!”

Akira's hand retreated.

There was a gurgling on the floor just outside the bedroom door. Makoto, lying on her stomach in a widening pull of blood, was trying to pull out her pager. Akira hopped over to kick it away from her hands. She looked up at him, eyes confused and angry.

“I thought you were...” she began, but the remark just ended in a cough of blood. He'd never know what she'd thought he was.

“I'm sorry,” he said, and he meant it. He liked Makoto. She didn't deserve this. But he'd had to. He'd _had_ to.

A clattering sound made Akira jerk his head up. It was Ryuji's cell phone falling out of his hands. He'd managed to wriggle it out of his back pocket with his hands cuffed behind his back.

“I called 119,” he said, looking up at Akira with an expression of anguish. “I just—I don't want her to die, man? What the fuck. What the actual fuck. She was really into you. What was all that? How could you just—”

Staring down at Ryuji, Akira realized he'd crossed a line. Or maybe he'd crossed many lines. Maybe it had come with the first bullet, the first shot. And now here he was, standing a million miles away from where he'd begun with a head full of ideas about revolution, justice, and fictional heroes.

And the crazy thing now was that looking at Makoto bleeding out on the floor made him feel nothing in particular.

But hatred on Futaba's face, the horror on Ryuji's. That made him want to scream.

Akira turned to Goro. “Come on. We have to get out of here.”

“What?” Goro was still sitting on the bed, seeming rather dazed.

“Come on.” Akira went to the bed, grabbed his arm, and pulled. “Get some shoes on, we've got to go. The cops will be coming.”

“Fine, let them come,” Goro snapped back at him, wrenching out of his grasp. “Just let them arrest me! Let them shoot me! I'll take the blame for this! I don't care!”

“ _You're not allowed to leave me!_ ” Akira yelled, grabbing him again to drag him forcibly to the door. Goro didn't fight him this time, stumbling after him and accepting the jacket Akira shoved into his hands.

When he was getting his shoes on, Akira stepped on his injured leg too hard and gasped. His pain killers had worn off, and his leg hurt like a bitch.

Goro seemed to pause. Did he even remember that he'd been the one to stab Akira?

“How are you supposed to escape when you can hardly walk?” Goro said. His tone was hard to read.

In front of the door, Akira turned around to face Goro. “I'll be fine.”

Looking him straight in the eye for once, Goro gave him a strange look. His hand reached up and brushed Akira's cheek. “Doubt it. You look like shit.”

Akira was opening his mouth in reply when Goro stepped up beside him, sliding his arm under Akira's shoulders to take the weight off his bad leg. “Come on. Let's go.”

Akira just about sagged against the door as he opened it. He took one last look back. Ryuji had wriggled off the table leg and was trying to staunch Makoto's bleeding the best he could while cuffed.

Akira couldn't see into the bedroom where Futaba was from here. But he knew she was there.

It was fine, though. She didn't need him anymore.

“Yeah. Let's go.” Akira pushed open the door.

He felt Goro's arm squeezing around his back, and he didn't need anything else.

 


	13. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The NIN song “We're in this Together” is the soundtrack for this chapter~
> 
> Anyway, thanks for sticking with me this long! All the comments have been very encouraging and ego-stroking and helped motivate me to finish this.
> 
> This is the first I've managed to write like...an actual novel-length thing! I have written a series of fics that amounted to like 60-something-k words in the end, but it was very seat of the pants-y and not a structured story, not the same thing as like, a cohesive narrative planned from start to finish. So I'm feeling really accomplished, today.

 

 

The kettle whistled, and Akira took it off the burner, pouring the hot water into the drip filter.

“Hot coffee in the middle of summer, Akira?” Goro said from his seat at the table in front of a mostly-empty breakfast plate. Akira had been forcing him to finish meals, so he'd filled out a little.

“That's rich, coming from you. You're still wearing dress shirts and sweater vests every day.” Goro was absolutely anal about dress. The one thing he'd let slide was his hair, which had grown out long enough to fit into a short ponytail. “You've got to dress like the locals, come on.” Akira gestured to the loud, ridiculous Hawaiian shirt he was wearing.

“...I'm fairly sure only tourists wear those. And I'm going to take that and burn it when you're asleep.”

“I'd love to see you try.” Akira hummed as he dumped ridiculous amounts of cream and sugar into both their coffees.

Then he spun around and pushed his fake glasses up his nose, imagining a little flash as he did. “Also, I keep telling you, call me Ren Amamiya.”

Goro rolled his eyes. “All right, Ren.”

“Or,” Akira said once the coffee was done, coming over to table to sit down opposite Goro, placing one cup down on his side, and one in front of the other man. “You can always call me _hubby._ Since we're married now.”

Goro, who'd been in the process of taking a sip of his hot coffee, choked and spat it out on the table instead. “What?”

Akira calmly took a sip of his drink. “Oh, didn't I tell you? When I had Iwai's buddy fake me a passport and get you visa papers, I wrote myself down as your spouse. Makes immigration easier. You know it's legal here, right? Oh, I guess we missed our first anniversary. I forgot. Shucks.”

Goro set his mug down on the table, choked a little more, and groped for a napkin to wipe his face with. “Y-you can't just—just get us married without my permission!”

“Why not?” Akira tilted his head. “I quit my job for you, I changed my name for you, and I make you your miso soup every morning.”

Goro covered his face with a hand. “I don't even know what to say...”

Akira leaned forward over the table and laid a hand over his. “Then say nothing at all. Our love needs no words.” He proffered his lips for a kiss, but Goro stuffed the dirty napkin in his mouth instead.

“You're insufferable.” But there was a quirk of a smile on his lips.

“So hey,” Akira leaned back in his seat again as he pulled the napkin out of his mouth and took a sip of his coffee. “Do you want to go out for a bit today? We don't have to go to the beach. Somewhere quiet.”

Goro was silent for a while. “...No. Not really. I want to work on my new book.”

Akira forced a smile. “Okay. I'll probably go to the gym for a bit. But feel free to text me like crazy, okay?”

“You're the one who texts like crazy.”

“Well yeah. But you should feel free to.”

Goro gave him an exasperated smile, finished his coffee, rinsed his mug and retreated to his study. Akira stayed at the kitchen table, looking at his coffee mug, then out the window at the glaring Hawaiian sun.

This was basically what their life had been like since leaving the country. It had been just over a year, now.

After the incident, Akira had gone straight to Iwai, begging for a place to hide and lay low. Iwai had wrenched every little detail out of him, and then had hardly believed it when Akira had told him everything. But he'd sided with Akira, and agreed to help him and Goro escape the law. _“Good riddance,”_ he'd said. _“You're crazy, but I'm glad someone had the balls to off him. I'll do what I can.”_

He'd advised Akira that the smartest thing to do would be to leave the country for a few years, at least, until the law found someone else to blame for the assassination. So he'd called up an old yakuza acquaintance who could forge ID to fabricate Akira a passport and a new identity. He'd offered to get one for Goro, too, but Goro had refused. Akira had done everything he could to try to convince him, but Goro had said he didn't want to lie about his identity anymore, and Akira had been forced to accept it.

In the end, both Futaba and Ryuji had kept their mouths shut about him, anyway. For that, Akira was grateful.

Immediately after the incident, Ryuji had been arrested and imprisoned for nearly a year. There had been less than zero evidence that he'd been the one to kill Makoto (he'd literally been cuffed the whole time), but they'd needed someone to blame, and Ryuji had been it.

It seemed Makoto's older sister Sae Nijima had been convinced of his innocence, and moved by how he'd tried to save Makoto, she'd taken on his defense, and gotten him out after a long legal battle.

Futaba had concocted some bullshit story about Makoto trying to arrest Ryuji for driving violations when he was trying to get to her to save her from internet stalker who'd broken into the apartment, and then the stalker had seen the cop, freaked out, shot her and ran. It seemed everyone was buying that. There was no suspicion of any connection to Shido. And since Akira had been legally dead beforehand, his name had never come up.

This was all information Akira had learned in bits had pieces after the fact, from Ryuji and Futaba's social media accounts. He hadn't been in contact with either of them since the event. He hadn't been in contact with anyone. He just social media stalked them.

Ryuji was taking care of Morgana now, and he was constantly posting cat pictures on his social media. Akira wondered if Ryuji knew he was looking.

Akira missed his cat.

Leaning back into his chair at the table, Akira pulled out his phone, as was his habit, scrolling through the connections from the life that was no longer his. Futaba's nerd posts. Yusuke's art posts. Ann's fashion posts and social justice posts. Futaba and Yusuke's wedding photos. Ryuji had gotten his license back, and was back at the track, winning some race. After helping to dismantle Kurohara L Pharmaceutical, Takemi had founded a research nonprofit. Iwai was living a peaceful life with his kid. Mishima was...dating Ann? No way, that couldn't be right. That was a joke. Probably.

Finally, Shido's crimes were beginning to be exposed. That was all over social media right now, too. The government was in shambles, but at least war wasn't on the horizon, for now.

Ohya had posthumously been awarded multiple prizes for journalism.

Akira had never gotten the opportunity to go to her grave.

Akira got up from the table. He wasn't going to the gym today. He had somewhere else he had to go.

x x x

“Hooooney, are you done work?” Akira knocked on the door to Goro's study. There was the scrape of the chair inside, and the door opened.

“It's _so_ cringey when you call me—” Goro began, then stopped, eyes wide as he stared at Akira. “Wha...?”

“Like it?” Akira spun around to show off his new clothing. It was a sort of sexy lady cop outfit, a little classier than your standard Halloween costume, complete with wig, handcuffs, hat and heels. He'd even waxed his legs (and _ow_ ) and put on some hose, too.

“Um...” Goro still seemed stunned, eyes roaming all over as if they weren't sure where to land.

“I bought it with your credit card, so I hope you like it. Sugar daddy.” Akira took a step forward, leaning in toward Goro to plant a chaste kiss on his cheek.

Rather than pushing him away, as Akira had expected, Goro blushed to his ears like a virgin. “Th-this is sudden...”

“Shh, don't fight it, baby~” Akira said (a line he'd always wanted to use in real life), gently taking Goro by the hand to guide him to the bedroom. Goro obediently followed, eyes blatantly roaming Akira's body as he did.

Akira wasted no time throwing him down on the bed and cuffing him to the headboard, then kicked off his heels to scoot up onto the bed and straddle Goro.

“You know, this feels rather nostalgic,” Goro said dryly as Akira unbuttoned his dress shirt.

“Yeah, well, maybe I'm still scared you'll run away,” Akira replied, meaning it to be facetious, but it came out all wrong.

Goro didn't reply, his breath just hitching as Akira ran his hands up his chest to tweak his nipples. “I'm...” he said finally, head turning to the side. “I'm not going to run away.”

“I don't know.” Akira's gloved hands moved up Goro's neck to comb through his hair, thumbs stroking his cheeks. “Sometimes, it feels like those eyes are looking somewhere far away.”

Goro blinked, then turned his head slightly, looking straight back into his eyes. Akira shivered.

“Sometimes you look that way, too,” Goro murmured at him.

Akira released his face, straightened up. “You know, I used to work at a bar as a cross-dresser. I guess I never told you, huh?”

It took a moment, but Goro cracked the slightest smile. “Is this your deep, dark secret?”

“Oh no,” Akira grinned. “It was the best job I've ever had. Certainly better than being a revenge hitman. I got to wear a lot of great clothes. Met a lot of interesting people. There was one. A rather cranky, sleazy, alcoholic reporter. She was older, but we got along really well.” Akira looked down, then back at Goro's eyes again. “She's pretty posthumously famous, these days.”

The smile vanished from Goro's face. He closed his eyes. “Do you want me to say I'm sorry? I did what I felt I had to at the time.”

“No.” Akira shook his head. “Sorry doesn't change anything. It's enough to know it's over.” He was silent for a while, looking down without really focusing on Goro. “Do you...ever think about the people you've killed?”

Goro was silent, his eyes still closed.

“I...don't think about most of them. They're just strangers to me. But sometimes I dream about Makoto. I was just wondering...”

Goro chuckled, eyes still closed. “I guess I just can't beat you, can I? Wow. Just...wow.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Akira glared down at him.

Goro's eyes opened a crack. “You were made to be a killer. Do you know how many times I've wished I could be like that? How hard I tried to feel nothing at all?”

Something about that remark pissed Akira off. He whipped off Goro's belt, yanked off his pants, and bit hard into his thigh. Goro didn't fight it, just moaned and leaned into Akira's touch, arched his back as Akira's mouth traveled up his leg to the line of skin between his thigh and crotch, teasing there.

“How's it going now?” Akira breathed against his balls, hand ghosting up his cock. “Feeling nothing at all?”

“Shut...shut up and fuck me.”

Akira brought his hand back for a light smack on Goro's cock, and Goro jumped. “You're not the one giving the orders here. If you want to get fucked, then beg for it.”

Goro didn't even hesitate. “Please fuck me. Please. I need your cock,” he whimpered.

Akira stared at him for a moment. Caught the smirk on Goro's lips.

There had been a time when Goro had found begging to be the most humiliating thing in the world. Now, it seemed, he'd figured out it was a great tool for manipulation. It was really, really hard for Akira to resist when Goro whimpered like that.

“Fuck,” Akira said, immediately caving, reaching over to the bedside table to fumble with some lube, and the moment Goro spread his legs, Akira was hitching up his skirt to reveal his hard cock, and then he was inside him, fucking Goro hungrily and biting lines up his sides, marking him hard enough to bleed.

“You're mine,” Akira breathed into his ear. “I've made you mine over and over. I've marked you so many times, inside and out, your mouth remembers my tongue, your ass remembers my cock, you slut. And now you can't have anything else, can you?”

Goro's only reply was a gasp as Akira slammed deep, right at the angle he knew made Goro lose his mind.

“If you ever try to leave, I'll chain you here and fuck you until you don't know anything else. You'll live to be my fuckdoll,” Akira was just murmuring whatever nonsense came to mind. “You won't need clothes or a name. I'll feed you out of a fucking kitty dish on the floor like the animal you are and fuck your worthless hole whenever you beg for it. And you'll be mine forever.”

He wasn't even sure if Goro heard him anymore. His eyes were closed, lips half-parted as he gave himself over to Akira.

“Say it,” Akira commanded, one hand tangling in his air, forcing his eyes open. “ _I belong to you, Akira._ ”

“I belong to you, Akira,” Goro babbled mindlessly.

With his other hand, Akira grabbed Goro's cock and jerked it roughly. “You're mine. Mine. _Mine_.”

Akira was drowning in Goro's eyes, drunk on the sweat sticking his hair to his forehead and sliding down his neck. He wanted to be lost, to feel like nothing else mattered, like they were the only people in the world. And in these moments, he could believe it.

Goro cried out in Akira's arms, shuddering through his orgasm as Akira kept pumping into him until he was done, filling Goro's ass and claiming him with his cum.

Akira was always up for post-coital cuddles, but Goro was a clean freak, and he needed to clean up in the bathroom before Akira could drag him back to bed for forced cuddles.

“You're merciless,” Goro muttered as he fished around in the bedside table for his cigarettes. “My ass hurts.” He'd started smoking shortly after they'd come to Hawaii. Or well, Goro said that he'd in fact been an occasional closet smoker for years, and he was just very good at hiding it.

One of the many secrets that Akira was starting to learn about Goro Akechi. He didn't like that Goro smoked, but figured he would allow Goro his slow suicide, as long as he refrained from a quick one.

“You like it when it hurts,” Akira teased, and was rewarded with a blush. As world-weary as he seemed, Goro could be so cute sometimes.

Sinking down to relax his head on Goro's lap, Akira just enjoyed the cuddle as Goro smoked.

“You really want a cat, don't you?” Goro said between drags. “I'm not sure if that kitty dish line was ridiculous or inspired. If I hadn't been about to cum, I think I would have laughed in your face.”

“If you won't let me get a kitty, you're gonna have to be my kitty,” Akira said with a grin.

“I didn't say I don't want a cat. Just, I don't know...”

“It feels like a very married thing to do?”

Goro blushed. “Stop saying that. We're not seriously married.”

“It's just a matter of time~”

Goro sighed in exasperation.

They were comfortably silent for a while until Akira said suddenly, “You ever think about getting a shrink?”

Goro snorted out smoke. “And say what? _Gee, I think I have PTSD from my decade-long career as a hitman for the former Prime Minister of Japan. Who was also my father._ Yeah, that'll go over well.” He took another drag.

“Well, there's other things you could talk about.”

“No. Never. I have my books. That's enough.” Goro blew out. “Maybe they'll make someone else happy. I don't need to be.”

Akira buried his face in Goro's lap. He knew Goro would probably never be happy. But he didn't like hearing it. He wanted to fix everything for him, even though he knew he couldn't.

Akira would keep trying until the day he died.

“Speaking of which, how's that going?” Akira said, raising his face out of the blankets with a smile.

Goro crushed out his cigarette in the ashtray on the bedside table. “Can you believe that cut-rate excuse for a reviewer in _Books Monthly_ gave my latest a three-star rating? She called it _boring,_ that illiterate plebeian. Well, apparently a few hundred thousand people don't think so, because it's flying off the fucking shelves.”

Akira laughed into Goro's lap. He was always amused by Goro's sensitivity in this area. “It's just one book reviewer. Please tell me you didn't send her an angry email.”

“Of course I did. Anonymously, of course. That hack. She should be fired. I sent another anonymous email to the magazine, telling them as much.”

Akira smothered his laughter in the blankets. “Whatever makes you feel better, honey.”

Goro's face went red again. “Stop calling me... _agh..._ ” But he seemed to realize that resistance was futile in that area.

“Hey, do you want to go out with me tomorrow?” Akira rolled over on the bed until he was facing up, head in Goro's lap. “Early. Before anyone wakes up. Or late. After everyone's asleep. Just the two of us.”

Goro looked down at him, a complicated expression on his face.

Goro hardly left the house. He didn't speak with anyone aside from Akira. He interacted with his agent and editor exclusively via email. He'd stopped appearing on television or making any sort of public appearances. When Akira had asked him why, Goro had said, _“I can only do it when I'm pretending to be someone else. I don't want to be that person anymore.”_

But that was okay. Akira knew how to deal with people like that.

“...Yeah. All right,” Goro said, finally. “Let's go out late. ...Just the two of us.”

Akira reached up to stroke his face.

Sometimes, he thought about being back in Japan. He thought about the life he'd left, the people he'd abandoned and betrayed.

Sometimes, he wondered if this had all been a big mistake.

But he hadn't told any lies recently.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I totally forgot to link this before, but look at this great art by Sula Saferoom: https://sulasaferoom.tumblr.com/image/178167719611  
> https://sulasaferoom.tumblr.com/image/178124252776
> 
> She draws a lot of sexy pretty Yusuke, too~


End file.
